Masque Night
by Kelaine729
Summary: AU. Each night, in Lord Maurice's castle, the revelers dance, celebrating their deliverance from the Ogres. Belle, mistress of Lord Gaston, endures it as she endures everything since her husband, Rumplestiltskin, died, trying to protect their son, Baelfire-till Lord Maurice sells the boy to a vengeful Dark One.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Once Upon a Time

X

She feels she is going slowly mad.

The court swirls around her as the music plays. Her dress is a deep red, a contrast to her pale skin. The skirt fans out, like the petals of a rose, layers of silk that flow about her with each move. The bodice is tight and fitted with a high collar held in place by a jeweled brooch. It cuts away, bare beneath the collar, to show everything from the hollow of her throat to as much of her breasts as can be displayed in Lord Maurice's court without causing scandal.

Like nearly all her formal clothes, it is Gaston's choice. Only the black dress, a mourning gown no one—not even Lord Maurice—can stop her from wearing once a year on the anniversary of her husband's death is one she chose. It is velvet and swathes her entirely from neck to foot. When she wears it a few weeks from now, her face will be hidden by a heavy veil and even her hands will be concealed in gloves. They will leave her in peace on that day. She will sit in the darkness of the small chapel with no one to care if she smiles or frowns, no one to demand that she speak or stay silent.

There is talk of a marriage for Gaston. She does not know if she should care. She remembers the promises Gaston made when Lord Maurice gave her to him as his "companion." He has kept them. She does not think he will abandon her or throw her away. Maurice had often told her in those first days that, if there had been a child, a son, he would see to it Gaston acknowledged him as his own heir.

But, her womb is a cold, empty thing. Rather like the rest of her. She had loved a man once, long ago (seven years, she thinks, it cannot have been more than seven years, but the gulf between these lives feels like centuries). She had wed him and born him a son.

Maurice frowns when he sees her child. More than anything else in the life before she was brought to Maurice's court, it is the child Maurice most despises. The rest could be passed over and forgotten. It could be spun into a fairy tale, the lost princess raised among peasants till fate intervened and she found her rightful place. All the rest could be forgiven ("forgiven," that was the word Lord Maurice used) if there were not a child to prove her crimes against her.

She bowed her head silently, knowing what Maurice was asking of her, pretending not to understand. She will face torture and death—she _has_ faced torture and death—before she lets anyone take her son from her.

So, noble blood or not, she is no fit wife for such as Gaston, not without an heir of his blood to make him overlook her past. Two years have passed, and no child has come. She does not look for one and thinks Gaston and even Lord Maurice must have given up hope by now.

If Gaston marries, if he pensions her off, as lords do to hirelings who have served well even if they are no longer of interest, perhaps she will be able to live a life of quiet retirement somewhere with nothing but her own thoughts to trouble her at night.

But, if he abandons her, if he casts her out after Lord Maurice dies. . . . She shudders. She knows only too well what that can mean. She would sooner Gaston killed her than send her back to that.

But, if he does, what will become of her son? Maurice may look askance at the boy, but he has not stood in the way of his education. Her hope is for him to become a clerk or secretary in Gaston's court. Her son, she knows, dreams of being a soldier or a knight.

His father died in the wars. She remembers when word at last was brought to their village of the terrible slaughter. Word travelled slowly from the front. She had been a widow for a year before she even knew her husband was dead. She does not want her son to become a soldier yet knows she may have no choice. His fate, after all, will be decided by whatever Maurice or Gaston decides is best for him. Maurice was raised from a mere knight to a lord by the king for his deeds in battle. In his kinder moods, he might give the boy the chance to follow in his footsteps. Gaston, who knows how Lord Maurice gained his title, might stop the boy from doing the same.

Gaston is the one she must please, then, to save her son—her son who, someday, when he understands, may never forgive her for saving him. So, she wears the dresses Gaston picks for her, she fixes the false smile on her face and dances. Later, when they are alone, she will force herself to smile and dance again.

Or she will try to. With each passing day, it grows harder. She feels as if she is turning to stone inside.

And it should not. She knows what Lord Maurice rescued her from. She knows that, if Gaston will never love her son, he will not use him as a weapon against her. If Lord Maurice gave her like a prize to Gaston with barely a thought as to her wishes, at least he treated her as something valued and worthwhile—and Gaston accepted her as such. Life could be worse. It _has_ been worse. She has no right to grieve it isn't better.

But, she is relieved when the dance is over and Gaston moves onto another partner. She cannot escape the ballroom floor yet. It is her duty to dance with other lords. But, they are content with forced smiles and some careless conversation. Tonight is a night of celebration. No one presses her to put a word in Gaston's ear or ask what secrets she knows of Lord Maurice.

The war is over. They are safe. Why does it feel as if she has done this a thousand times before? Why does safety, so freshly won, taste like the dust of years in her mouth?

She is relieved when, at last, she manages to escape. Claiming fatigue and heat, she goes to one of the side rooms. Unconsciously, she finds herself reaching for her locket. It is bright gold, a gift from Gaston, though that is not why she always wears it. She is going to open it when she realizes she is not alone in the room.

Startled, she looks up, aware that something is wrong, though she cannot say why. It is as if this day is a pattern, set in stone and inviolate, though she cannot say why she is so sure of this. She knows what is supposed to happen next, and this man is not supposed to be here.

Yet, he _is_ here, a figure in the shadows, watching her with contempt. He moves forward, his face hidden by the hood of his cloak. "Lady . . . Belle?" he asks. His voice is strange, high pitched and mocking. He makes her name sound like an insult, as though it were something dredged out of the gutter.

Well, he is not the first one to address her so. She has grown used to disdain. "Not lady," she says calmly. "I am Madame Belle."

"Ah, yes. Lord Maurice's little pet?"

She hears the jab in those words, too, though she is less sure of his meaning. Maurice has never been more than fatherly to her. "I am given to understand it was Lady Rosamonde who requested her husband summon me to court," she told him, still tranquil. Lady Rosamonde, Lord Maurice's sickly wife. Even tonight's festivities have not drawn her out of her rooms.

"Indeed? And does she find you as poor a payment for her efforts as I do?"

She has not seen him in the court before. She doubts a commoner would speak so of Lady Rosamonde. Perhaps he is a visitor from some other land? An ambassador for one of the ladies they hope to betroth Gaston to? That would explain his animosity. He sees her as a threat. How laughable.

But, if that is what he is, it would be wrong of her to do anything that could harm the negotiations. Besides, it has been a long time since she was able to feel pain at the words whispered about her.

"You are right that I can never repay Lady Rosamonde's kindness to me," Belle says, pretending to misunderstand. "But, I would never stand in the way of her best interests."

The man laughs. The sound is eerie, higher than his voice and inhuman. "Oh, wouldn't you? I—"

But, just then, Baelfire comes running up to her. "Mama? I have a message for you. I—" He stops abruptly, seeing she is not alone.

Belle pulls her son towards her, part affectionate embrace, part effort to shield him from this malicious stranger. For all his bravery, he is such a small child. Only six years old. "Bae, what are you doing up? I sent you to bed hours ago!"

Bae looks shyly at the hooded man, who (thankfully) stands quiet and absolutely still. "Lady Rosamonde wants to speak to you, Mama. She wants to speak to both of us."

Belle frowns. This is unusual. Lady Rosamonde's health has been poor for years. Belle has been in her presence only twice before. She hopes it isn't bad news.

"Perhaps she merely wishes to hear how the ball is going," the stranger says.

Belle's frown deepens. "A ball? It's been a long time since we had time for such things," she says. But, she knows there is something wrong. The Ogres are winning this war. She knows it. There is nothing to celebrate.

Yet, there is the ghost of a memory, a red dress and terrible weariness, as if all their dancing and merrymaking is only a prelude to this moment, trapped in the dark.

"Is that so? Well, perhaps times are changing." The stranger laughs again before vanishing into the shadows.

Belle looks down at her dress. For some reason, she is surprised to see it is pale gold, not deep red. There have been no balls, but Gaston expects her to always appear like a great lady. There are already too many who would like to forget any claim she has to being one. Like all the dresses he gives her, the neckline plunges far too generously for her comfort. It was one thing to appear like this in court where Gaston puts her on display, but Lady Rosamonde has been almost motherly the few times they've met. Belle wants to run back to her rooms and find a shawl to cover herself up.

But, if Lady Rosamonde has summoned her, there may not be time. She turns quickly, still holding onto her son. This is what must be done. She knows it.

It as if she has done this a thousand times before.

X

Lady Rosamonde lies in her bed, propped up by several pillows. Her face is so pale, Belle wonders if even this is too much of a strain for her. But, the lady smiles when she sees her. Belle does not think she is dying, not tonight. Her eyes, meeting Belle's, are the same bright blue. Her hair is the same deep brown tinged with red.

"My Lady Belle," she says.

Belle starts to demure, but her ladyship stops her. "Let me call you that, tonight. It should be your title, you know. Your mother was my sister, and your father was—is—a lord."

Belle looks at her, almost daring to ask, but she bites back the words. "I—I promised Lord Maurice I would never ask my father's name, my lady," she says instead. "I will not break that vow. I owe him too much." And, if there is any truth to whispers she hears, Bae is safer if she never knows.

Rosamonde frowns. "You don't owe him as much as you seem to think, my dear. Had my sister not fled, I would have claimed you as my own. Scandal averted, and you would have had your birthright."

Belle shakes her head, but says no more. She could demure that the lands and title belong to one of Maurice's blood, but she is afraid how Lady Rosamonde might answer that, afraid she will say something that Belle cannot pretend not to hear or understand.

Her eyes, her hair, her small build are all marks of Lady Rosamonde's family. But, there is something in the squareness of her jaw that is not unlike Lord Maurice.

"Let me see this son of yours," Lady Rosamonde says. She smiles as Belle pushes Baelfire forward. "Baelfire," the lady says. "That is the name you gave him?"

"It was a name of my husband's people," Belle says. "A strong name. I had to choose it while he was at war, but I thought he would approve."

"Your husband," Rosamonde repeats. "You know there are those who say he was no such thing."

Belle puts her hand to her locket. "Then they are mistaken."

"It might be better," Rosamonde does not sound as if she is trying to persuade her. If anything, she seems resigned. "A child of noble blood whose father is unknown is not the same as a peasant's son."

Belle bows her head. "I know," she says quietly. "And, for Bae's sake, perhaps I should." And, if she truly loved Bae—loved him more than a ghost—wouldn't she give him this? But— "I cannot. He's all I have left of Rumplestiltskin. I can't deny him."

Rosamonde, to her surprise (except, she is not surprised. It as if she has had this conversation over and over again instead of saying these words for the first time), does not argue. There is a weary sympathy in her eyes. "I understand. Forgive me for suggesting otherwise." Then, she manages to smile. "I am glad you found your way back to us, even if we have not made matters easy. I am glad to know Elise's child lives. Will live. That is what I wanted to tell you, Belle. You will live. You and your son."

Lady Rosamonde is ill, her mind wandering. Belle will not take away her comfort with cold, hard facts. But, the Ogres surround them. Avonlea has fallen. There is no hope (just as there are no balls for their deliverance, their victory).

"You don't believe me, do you?" Rosamonde says. "It doesn't matter. Tomorrow night, you will be dancing, celebrating the end of this war. And every night thereafter."

Belle humors her. "I will be glad to dance again, my lady."

"Call me Aunt," Rosamonde says. "This one night, call me Aunt."

"Aunt. Aunt Rosamonde. You must come see me dance, then, when the Ogres are defeated."

"Oh, my child, I wish I could. But, there is a price to be paid."

"My la—Aunt? I don't understand."

"There is magic," Rosamonde says. "A curse. Time will stop. Nothing that is not already within our borders shall cross them. And, within those borders, everything will be as it should." She sighs. "Or as close as Maurice can imagine. I love him dearly, despite it all, but his mind is not as creative as it might be. . . ."

"Aunt Rosamonde?"

"It's no matter," Rosamonde says. There is a knock at the door. Lord Maurice enters. He is startled to see Belle and Baelfire.

"What are you doing here?" he demands.

"Hush, love," Rosamonde says. "I sent for them. She's my sister's child. And he's her son. I wished to speak to them tonight. Can you blame me?"

"No, no, of course not." Maurice is troubled. There is a heavy burden in his eyes as he looks first at Belle then Rosamonde.

"It's all right," Rosamonde says. "I've said what I needed to. Belle, dear niece. And Baelfire. Know I love both of you. But, you must go. Now. Lord Maurice and I have other matters to deal with."

"Rosamonde. . . ." Maurice says. Tears swell up in his eyes. Belle, seeing them, looks at Rosamonde's pale face. The lady has been ill for years, but Belle wonders if matters of come to a head. Rosamonde's summoning her, her strange words. Belle fears she is dying.

"It's all right," Rosamonde repeats. "There is no other way." She smiles and reaches out, taking Maurice's hand and pressing it against her lips. "I know I am what you love best. And it is not as if I am going away. This moment will play out, again and again, each night as time repeats itself."

Belle, uncertain what is happening, takes Baelfire and hurries out of the room. She glances back once before the door closes. Lord Maurice can no longer hold back his tears. In his hand, he holds a long knife.

The door closes. The stranger is standing near her again.

"Just like you remembered it, dearie?" he asks, and the world shifts again.

"He's going to kill her," Belle said. "I—I don't understand. I know this. How do I know this?"

"Oh, she's been dead for centuries. It's about time someone noticed."

"No. She's alive. When we have the ball—" She stopped, confused. "There's going to be a ball—there's been a ball—It hasn't happened. But I know. How?"

He grinned. "Because it _has_ happened. And will happen. Again and again. That—" He waved his hand towards Rosamonde's door, "—shouldn't be part of it, no matter what she said. The curse began just after. But, she's your aunt—Sorry, she _was_ your aunt. I suppose that's why you get to relive this. Lucky you." He giggled.

She feels the malice radiating off him. No one, not even Hordor when she humiliated him before half the village, has hated her like this. "You're angry with me," she said, knowing that is too light a word for what she feels. "Why? What have I done to you?"

"Let's just say you remind me of someone. I had a wife once, did you know it? No, of course, you didn't. And you won't know it a day from now, which may be when I'll come back. Lovely thing. Faithful. So I thought. Till I came home and found she'd run off with another man. Of course, she got bored of him, too. Or was just ambitious. She'd worked her way up to a lord by the time I found her."

The numbness Belle wraps herself in vanishes. She feels as if she'd been slapped. She remembers Hordor coming to her after the news of the deaths of all the men the village had sent to war had come to them. She'd been a widow a year, he said. It didn't matter that she hadn't known. Her time of mourning was past. She was free to remarry, if she wanted. Or if she didn't want.

He said he'd send Baelfire away. He would have given him to the foundling home in Longbourne, a baby only three months old with no mother to nurse him. It would have been a death sentence. Hordor hadn't even waited for her reply before grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her towards him.

A madness had come over Belle. She had beaten Hordor off, driving him out of her house and into the street. Worse, she had done it in view of half the village.

Assault was a crime, a breaking of the Duke's peace. And the man she'd attacked was an officer in the Duke's army set up as ruler over their village. Hordor had been within his rights when he sentenced her to twenty lashes and a fine of thirty silver pieces, more than she could possibly pay.

A debtor who couldn't pay her fine could be auctioned off as a servant, bound like a slave to her new master till she paid back what he had given for her.

She thought Hordor meant to buy her himself. He had made a few bids. But, it was a ship's captain, just in at port and who had laughed and jeered during her whipping in the village square, who had bought her. Despite how the man used her—and sometimes let his crew use her—he'd let her keep Bae. And, he had finally made port in the Marchlands.

Belle's mother had given her a ring before she died and told her, if she was ever desperate—truly desperate, with no other hope—to send it to the lord of the Marchlands or his wife. Belle still remembered the gut clenching terror of _hoping _her mother had been right and the ring would bring her rescue.

It had in its way. Lord Maurice had freed her and taken her to his court.

Or not freed her. He had given her a place—a better one than Belle had had. Gaston was a better man than Captain Jones had been. He wasn't cruel. He never beat her. He didn't force Belle to come to him when she was too tired or ill, and she couldn't imagine him tossing her like a bone to one of his men.

But, he had tried to get her to send away Baelfire more than once. Not to an orphanage where he would starve. Gaston was better than that. He offered apprenticeships, wellborn foster families, lives that could be good and comfortable. Perhaps it would be better. Perhaps, as Gaston said, she was standing in the way of the life Baelfire could have as something more than the misbegotten child of a lord's misbegotten mistress.

Gaston might be right, too, when he said it was only her selfishness that made her cling to him. Protecting Baelfire, letting him know he had a mother who loved him and would do anything to keep him safe, sometimes, that seemed like the only reason she could face each day. Take him away from her, and she would lie down on the ground, unable to even make the effort to take a breath.

She was used to the insults. Even those who spoke pleasantly to her face, asking secrets or begging favors, whispered the stories behind her back. Lady Elise's secret child. Born in a midden, they said, and let herself be bedded by some peasant pig she'd found wallowing in the mud. But, she reeled under this strange man's words. Yet, the cold and emptiness inside her rant too deep. Voice calm, she answered him, showing only polite curiosity, "So, what did you do when you found her?"

He grinned. His teeth were discolored, jagged fangs. "Punished her, dearie. What else?" He looked at Baelfire, and the humor went out of him. "She had taken my greatest treasure with her when she went. How could I forgive her?"

The last ghosts of her pain and anger faded. Belle was only tired, so tired. "I suppose you couldn't," she agreed. The world began to blur.

They are safe, she remembers. The Ogres are defeated. Lord Maurice's lands are safe. Forever. He has decreed there will be a ball to celebrate their deliverance.

If it was deliverance.

Wearily, Belle takes Baelfire by the hand. "Past time for you to be in bed," she tells him.

She should be happy. They are safe. The danger is past. But, the knowledge brings no peace. She feels as if she has faced this a thousand times before, as though deliverance is just another trap.

She feels she is going slowly mad.


	2. The Cup of Kindness

Belle steels herself as she stands up to formally toast the assembly before the ball begins. Her stomach is tied in knots, though she tells herself it does not matter. They are celebrating their deliverance. She could be staggering drunk and speak nothing but gibberish, and the crowd would no doubt cheer her tonight.

But, her words will be remembered tomorrow. They will be cut and dissected. Gaston and Maurice will both remember it if she shames them. So, she forces a joyous, welcoming smile and holds up her goblet, readying the words she has prepared.

As she opens her mouth to speak, a high, mocking titter cuts through the room. The sound of it unnerves Belle. The words of her carefully memorized speech scatter like dry leaves. She stutters, turning red.

The crowd turns towards the source of the laughter. A figure lies, propped up on his side, over the great lintel at the entryway.

He cannot be there. The lintel is broad but Belle cannot imagine how he has managed to prop himself up there, especially in such a position. And how did he get there? Lord Maurice's table looks down on the hall. How did none of them see this man climbing up there? It is not possible.

But, worse than that, Belle, who has felt as if the fabric of the world is fraying around her for . . . she cannot say how long. It seems as though it has been coming undone for years, for lifetimes, but she can only remember this weighing on her for a single day—Belle feel as if the fraying threads are being torn apart entirely. The unknown beyond rears up, dark and terrifying.

The figure giggles again. The sound is high and inhuman. He—it—Belle isn't sure which—is partly hidden in a hooded cloak. Beneath that it wears strange, tight-fitting clothes of dragon hide. Its body is like a man's, but nothing about it seems human.

"Lord Maurice, is _that_ your master of ceremonies? Well, that was rather a letdown." The creature swings its legs over the side, posed like a child kicking his feet as he sits on a wall. Then, he pushes himself off and lands lightly on the floor, as easily as a cat.

An aisle has cleared for him, people instinctively getting out of his way, and he walks down it. He comes slowly, though there is a jauntiness in his step, a cheerful energy at odds with the menace that breathes off him. He leaps lightly up to the dais where the high table is set. Ignoring Belle, he bows flamboyantly to the lord. "Lord Maurice, allow me to introduce myself." He rises up, pulling away his cloak. It swirls like the cape of a street performer, a grand piece of theatricality.

But, the creature beneath the cloak needs no showman's tricks to make the assembly gasp and back away. Belle, standing at the edge of the dais, has no place to go but over the edge and it is still all she can do to keep from taking that step. In form, he is like a man. But, his skin is lumpy and scaled, like the thick, pebbly hide of certain trolls or of the monster beasts, crocodiles they are called, she has seen in books. His eyes, as he turns and regards the crowd, are lizard's eyes, bright yellow and brown. The hands, lightly gripping the discarded cloak, end in stained, brown claws with fishhook curves. He gives them a smile of benevolent madness, showing rotting colored fangs.

With a flick of his wrists, he tosses the cloak aside. It bursts into flames then vanishes without leaving even ashes behind.

"I am the Dark One," he announces flamboyantly. "And I have come to save you from your curse."

Gaston rises at this, though Maurice remains seated, eyes grim. "You're too late, demon," Gaston says. "The land is saved already—with no help from you."

The creature, the Dark One, titters. "Oh, I wouldn't call it _saved._ I don't suppose you recall the details, do you? How your enemies were driven back? How your miserable lives were spared? And all the rest of it. No?

"Then, let me tell you. I suppose some of you have noticed the absence of poor, sick Lady Rosamonde. She's not here because her health took a sudden turn for the dead." He struck a theatrical, mocking pose. "But, do not mourn her, my children. She gave her life to save you all. It just so happens she did a very bad job of it—isn't it so, Lord Maurice?"

Maurice's face might have been carved in stone. Very slowly, he nodded. "It's true. Rosamonde died. To save us."

"Yes, yes, my condolences. Which is why it falls to me to save you from her well-intentioned bit of providence."

Gaston looked from Maurice to the Dark One. "Save. . . ? What do you mean? The Ogres are defeated?" He looked at Maurice uncertainly. "Aren't they, my lord?"

It was the Dark One who answered. "Oh, I wouldn't say _defeated_. More like _dead of old age._ It's a very long, boring story but, centuries before even I was born, Lady Rosamonde's family became the guardians of a certain piece of very old magic, a curse. The curse has the power to reshape a land, trapping it in time, and closing its borders to any outsiders. Which she did. Of course, being a gentle, kind lady—" he said it mockingly, "—she didn't reshape your lands in any great, terrible ways. The damages the Ogres did have been undone, your storehouses are full to bursting, and no one goes to bed hungry or afraid.

"But, you're still trapped in time. You're celebrating the Ogres defeat tonight, just as you have the night before, and the night before that, and every night for . . . well, let's just call it longer than you can imagine, and leave it at that."

Belle sees disbelief on the faces around her, but every word echoes in her with the sound of truth. She remembers Lady Rosamonde's words the night before . . . was it the night before? How can she have forgotten them?

_You and your son will live._

And . . . things fracture in her mind. She remembers a man who was there. But, not there. Not last night. Not the night before. But, she has met him before, spoken with him.

She remembers how he hated her, though she still doesn't understand why.

Gaston starts to say something. She looks at him and feels sickened. Last night, when they first knew they were going to live. He summoned her to help him celebrate. He was drunk, though not too drunk for what he wanted. She remembers barely being able to endure his touch yet forcing herself to smile and laugh, as she always did, to do everything he wanted and more, ignoring the voices screaming inside her.

He is not vile, she tells herself. She has known true vileness. Drunkenness makes him crude, and there are times she can barely remember what it is like to crave that kind of human touch. But, she doesn't loathe herself for what she does with him. Or she shouldn't.

But, how many times has she relived that? How many more times must she? How _can_ she, now she knows?

_Bae,_ she says his name silently, like a talisman. For Bae's sake, she must endure. She must _survive_. Because his survival has always depended on hers.

Whatever Gaston is about to say is cut off by Lord Maurice. "It's true," he says. "What this creature is saying. Rosamonde gave her life to enact the curse, to save us. It has been the same day, playing over and over again. For years, I think." He looked at the Dark One. "But, even if I knew how to break it, what happens then? The Ogres are still out there. Our homes were in ruins, our food nearly gone, before she cast it. How can we survive without it?"

"Ah, now, that's where _I_ come in," the Dark One said. "I can save you. I can protect your little land. What the curse has fixed will stay fixed. You'll still have the food and other supplies. The Ogres stay gone. I can also give you some protection from new enemies scattered around and help you find your footing in the bright, new future your about to find yourselves in—for a price."

Belle knows then. It's in the way Lord Maurice doesn't look at her, in the cruel way the Dark One smiles, watching her out of the corner of his eyes. All of this, his appearance in the hall, his theatrical posing, it's only an act. Maurice and this creature have already made their agreement. This is just a show, to explain to everyone else why their world is about to change—and what they are about to do.

And this creature hates her and wants her harm.

And he knows—the night they met, she saw it—he knows what will harm her. Her life, her death, those are nothing. There is only one thing that matters—only one thing she has let matter since she found out what being sold to Killian Jones means—

The terror has already risen up before the doors beneath the lintel where the creature perched open. Two of Maurice's guards come in. They are bringing a smaller figure between them, a little boy who has no choice but to run to keep up as they drag him along, a hand on each arm.

"No," Belle whispers. She looks first at Gaston. He is surprised, but she can see him nodding, seeing the advantage of it. Though Belle has kept her promise and never asked her father's name, Baelfire is a threat to Gaston's inheritance. She looks at Lord Maurice. There is some regret in his face, maybe even grief, but he has already made his choice. Worse, he is sharing a look of understanding with Gaston. He wants Bae gone as well.

"_No!_" Belle shouts it, desperate for words to change his mind. "My lord, you can't—"

The Dark One laughs. "Oh, I think you'll find he can, dearie." He points a long, clawed finger at the boy. "I want _him_."

"Mama?" Bae's voice is frightened. The guards are forcing him onto the dais, towards the creature who has bargained for him.

Belle puts herself between them, wrapping her arms around Bae. "No, you can't have him. Maurice has no right to him. He's my son, and I won't give him to you."

"Oh, you'd let all these people suffer for eternity rather than cut your apron strings, is that it?" the Dark One sneers. "Everyone else can go to blazes as long as you're all right, is that it?"

Gaston was walking towards her but he watches the Dark One. "Good sir," he says. "Forgive her. She's only a woman, after all. You can't expect her to understand these necessities.

"Belle," Gaston takes her gently but firmly by the arms, trying to pull her away from Bae. "He's right. This is for the best."

Belle tries to shove Gaston off, never letting go of Bae. "No. Gaston, _please._ He's my son. You can't—" She searches her mind for arguments, bargains, anything she could offer Gaston to keep him from doing this. But, there is nothing. He and Maurice want Bae gone. They had always wanted him gone.

Bae clings to her. "Mama?" he says, afraid. "What do they mean? Where are they taking me? Don't leave me, Mama!"

_Don't leave me._

She will get no pity from Maurice or Gaston. There is only one person left to appeal to.

Belle turns to the Dark One. "I won't leave him," she says. "If you take him, you take me as well."

The creature scowls. "And what am I supposed to do with you?"

The disdain—the _disgust_—in the creature's voice should silence Belle's fears. But, the question itself—and the answer every man who's asked it in the years since her husband's death—makes her cold and sick inside. Human men have been bad enough. She looks at this creature and wonders how _he_ will answer it, what he will do with her.

What will he do to her son? What can he want with a small child?

There are answers pressing in on her that she doesn't want to think of. Even if this creature allows her to come, how can she protect Bae from him? She will only be trading one powerless slavery for another. What can she do?

How can she abandon her son? Whatever this creature means to do to him, however powerless she may be to stop him, she cannot let Bae face it alone, even if that is the only thing she can do.

"Do whatever you want," she tells the Dark One. "But, don't take him away from me."

"Belle—" Gaston begins, exasperated. But, he gives her up as a lost cause and turns his attention to the Dark One. "The lady is mine," he says. "She's my companion, as we say here."

The creature tittered again. "I didn't ask, dearie. I'm not looking for _love._" He laughed again, unable to say the word with a straight face. "If she comes, it will be to scrub my stairs and wash the laundry. I've no other use for her."

"You heard him, Belle," Gaston said. "I forbid this. You can't possibly—"

She hears the bored exasperation in his voice. He acts as if she is an unreasonable child, as if Bae's life is nothing more than a plaything and she's the spoiled child who won't put away her toys.

"No one decides my fate but me, Gaston," she tells him coldly, as if she is a queen and Gaston is a lowly peasant who presumed too much. It is such a lie. She thinks of Hordor, of Jones, of Maurice and Gaston, all twisting her life for their own ends.

But, there _were_ choices. And she accepted them. Faced with the same choices all over again . . . Belle doesn't know if she would have the strength to do what she did before. But, she would pray to be able to, to choose as she did before. She accepts this choice, now. She looks this creature, the Dark One, in the eye and says, "I will go with you." Her voice does not allow for argument.

Naturally, he argues. "It's _forever_, dearie," he says, scowling.

She is ready to scream. At him. At Gaston. At Lord Maurice who can sacrifice her son in this way. But, that will not help Bae. "Then, I will go with you _forever,_" she tells him.

The creature scowls at her a moment longer. Then, his face turns as cruel and amused as a cat that realizes the thing annoying it is a mouse that is trying to crawl inside its fangs. He laughs. "Deal."

Only then does Lord Maurice protest. "Belle. Belle, you cannot do this. Belle, please. You can't go with this . . . beast."

She looks at him. It is as if he is only now understanding what has been going on in front of him, what she has offered, what the creature has accepted. He looks distraught.

Does it matter to him, what happens to her? Are the hints she's heard true? She knows he has never loved Baelfire, no more than he would love a mule born to a prize blood mare—less, since the mare would never have been able to cling to her foal despite all efforts to take it away. The mare would certainly never defend the union that had created it.

But . . . does she matter to him? At least, a little?

Does it matter to her if she does? Did he really think, if he took Bae away from her, she would just accept the loss and go on? As if her memory of her son and the husband she loved can be wiped away if Maurice can only find the right bit of magic to clean the muck of the past that clings to her?

It doesn't matter, she reminds herself. None of it matters. "My lord, Gaston, it's been decided."

The creature, still looking at her with cruel, hungry eyes, nods. "You know – she's right. The deal is struck. Oh! Congratulations on your brave, new world. I hope you enjoy it."

He snaps his fingers, and Lord Maurice's court vanishes in a cloud of purple smoke.


	3. The Dark Castle

The smoke cleared. Lord Maurice's court had vanished. They stood in a round-shaped entry room. Behind them were huge, thick doors, more heavily barred than the gates of Maurice's castle during the height of the war. Belle shivered. Wherever they were, it was far colder than the Marchlands, and her silk ball gown was barely any protection against the chill in the air. Bae, dressed only in his night shirt, pressed close against her.

The Dark One gave an extravagant, mocking bow. "Welcome to the Dark Castle," he said.

Bae clung to Belle. "M-mama?" he said. "What's happening?"

The creature's face softened. He crouched down, putting his eyes at the same level as Bae's. "I'm a bit of a wizard, Master Baelfire," he said, the harsh edge vanishing from his voice. "I've brought you to my home. Do you understand what Lord Maurice and I were talking about?"

"You—you wanted to take me away from Mama."

The Dark One shot Belle a quick scowl. "Not exactly." His face fell back into a gentle, coaxing expression. "You're how old, now? Seven?"

"Six," Bae said. "I'll be seven in fall."

"A very grown up six, then. You know the page boys who serve in Lord Maurice's court?"

Bae gave an uncertain nod. The gap between six and seven could be larger than a castle moat to little boys; and the page boys, sons of knights and nobles, knew they outranked all the other children in the castle.

"Well, boys are sent to train as pages when they are seven, aren't they? It's a very important job. I keep a smaller court than Lord Maurice, though I am a much more powerful. Kings have begged favors of me, I'll have you know." It didn't sound like boasting any more than it sounded like boasting to say a dragon weighed more than a lizard. "Well, I decided it was time to take at least one boy my service. Not just _any_ boy, mind you. Someone special. And, for that, I was willing to pay Lord Maurice a very high price—anything he wanted—to have you released from his service and sent into mine." He gave Belle another scowling look. "Mothers usually have the good taste not to cling like limpets when this happens."

"Mothers usually release their sons into courts where they have family and friends," Belle said evenly. "And the boys are seven, not six."

"His birthday will be soon enough. I imagine you'll be willing enough to go by then. For now, let me show you your rooms."

"Can—can Mama stay with me?" Bae asked. "Please?"

The Dark One didn't look pleased but he gave in. "I suppose it's that or the dungeons. I wasn't expecting both of you. The only rooms prepared are for the boy."

"Thank you," Bae said. He shivered in the cold room.

The Dark One waved his hands and pulled a deep blue robe out of the air along with a matching pair of slippers. "For you, Master Baelfire. I can't have you catching cold."

Bae gratefully pulled them on, then padded after the Dark One as he led them through his home. Candles and torches lit their way—dozens of them, more than Lord Maurice had used to light the grand hall during the Yuletide feast Belle's first winter at the castle before the Ogres had begun to cut them off from trade and candles and the gold to buy them still flowed freely. The Dark One, despite his name, had enough light to turn a simple hallway bright as day. But, the windows they passed were all hidden behind thick, heavy curtains.

They went through a great hall, the kind for receiving guests. It was made to impress with the owner's wealth, Belle thought. Intricately woven tapestries hung on the walls alongside paintings that startled her with the lifelike images. Strange objects were scattered about like trophies. Some, like a gold cup encrusted with jewels, were things anyone could recognize as valuable. Others, like an odd, pointed hat covered with stars and sickle moons, she suspected were impressive only to other wizards and witches.

But, the long table, that could have easily sat two dozen guests, had only one chair. Odder still, a common spinning wheel stood in a corner, ready to use. It was a great wheel, the kind spinners stood to use. Those wheels had a reputation for being tricky among the village women. At least in the Borderlands, they were only used by master spinners like Belle's husband.

The pain of missing him, familiar but unexpected in this place, stabbed through her again.

The creature led them on through hallways and up stairs till they reached a large door. The Dark One flicked his hand, and the door opened. There was a large playroom on the other side. Shelves were bursting with toys of all kinds. No less than three toy chests, opened and overflowing with more toys, stood against the walls. Another wall had shelves of books and strange tools made of metal and glass. She recognized two, a kind of farseeing glass used on ships and another device used for judging latitude by the stars. She had seen such things in Maurice's castle as well as Jones' ship and knew soldiers in the field made as much use of them as men at sea, but she felt a chill down her back at the sight of them.

Unlike the other rooms they passed through, this one was warm and cozy. A fire burned merrily in the grate, and the marble floor was covered by a thick carpet of the sort traders brought from Agrabah.

The Dark One regarded Bae's gaping face with satisfaction for a moment before throwing open another door. It led to a bedroom. A canopied bed, embroidered in gold with knights and dragons, stood against the wall. There were wardrobes, their doors open to show clothes fit for a prince. A door opened off to the side where Belle could see a large tub for bathing. Two trunks had been placed by the foot of the bed.

The Dark One grimaced at the trunks as if they were dead rats. "Your things from Maurice's castle are in those," he said. He snapped his fingers, and a trundle bed slid out on its own from under the bed. "For you. _Madam._" He repeated the title Belle had given him when she told him she was no lady. "You're not to make the boy sleep in it, do you understand?"

Belle nodded humbly. "Of course, my lord." If he meant to treat her as a servant, it was a role she could accept. She didn't think he wanted more, not from her.

But, what did he want from Bae? There were stories of witches who ate children's hearts and wizards who used their blood. There were far more ordinary, if more horrifying, tales of men who used children more cruelly than Jones had ever used her.

Yet, he was looking at Bae with something like kindness in his eyes. "Master Baelfire, you've had a very long day, all three hundred years of it. You need some rest." He turned his attention to Belle, his eyes hardening. "Madam, when the child's asleep, you'll find me in the long hall. I'll explain you duties to you there."

Belle curtsied, head bowed. "My lord."

He looked ready to say something scornful but looked at Bae and merely gave her a curt nod before leaving the room.

"Mama?"

Belle looked down at Bae. He was frightened and uncertain. What should she say? Tell him not to fear this creature who wanted Bae for reasons unknown? Terrify her son by sharing her fears? And what would this Dark One do to her if she did? She put lies and fears aside for the moment, forcing herself to smile. "He's right, you've had a very long day. It's past time you were asleep." He was still in his night shirt. Lord Maurice's guards had pulled him out of bed and marched him into the ballroom without even giving the child a chance to throw on a cloak to keep off the cold.

How? She wondered. How could Maurice do this? Even if—even if—

It didn't matter, she reminded herself. It was done. Lord Maurice had sent Bae away, and she'd followed—she'd _chosen _to follow. She opened the trunks and found Bae's things. His blanket was there, the one she'd knitted for him before he was born. He still couldn't sleep without it.

Was it a good sign that this Dark One had brought it? Should she take hope from that?

Bae snuggled up to the blanket—ragged and worn after six years of love—as Belle tucked him in bed. She stroked his curls. "Close your eyes, Bae, and let me tell you a story. Is there one you'd like to hear?"

"Papa."

Belle smiled. "All right, then. Once upon a time, there was a weaver. He was the greatest weaver in all the Borderlands, and he was kind and brave. . . ."

Bae smiled as she told the familiar tale, of how a weaver met a peasant girl and the happy life they'd had. The story soothed him. Before long, he'd fallen asleep. Belle started for the door. Then, she thought better of it. She didn't have to wear the clothes Gaston chose for her, not anymore. She didn't have to smile and dance and lie. She thought. She hoped.

She should be grateful. Lord Maurice had reminded Belle time and again she should be grateful. Grateful he'd answered her desperate plea for help. Grateful he'd taken her in. Grateful he'd given her a place in his court by giving her to Gaston.

She brought out her black dress. It was velvet, but the cut was simple and severe. It covered her from neck to wrist to nearly the soles of her feet. It was warm and its simplicity, at least, fit a servant. It was also the only dress she'd chosen for herself.

Belle took off the red ball gown and folded it away in the trunk (there was no room in the wardrobes for anything of hers). Reminding herself to be brave, she went out the door to find her new master.

X

Belle fixed tea while the Dark One explained her duties. He paced around her, coming close, then father away, giving her a feeling of being stalked.

Jones had done this. She remembered him leaning in over her shoulder as she worked. He'd laughed whenever she let his see she was afraid, telling she was such a skittish, nervous thing as he put his hand around her throat. He had had a way of speaking gently as he threatened her or saying things that should have been pleasant but made her skin crawl.

She'd survived, she reminded herself. Bae was alive and so was she. They would survive this, too.

Somehow.

The list of chores the Dark One gave was nearly impossible, but she nodded mutely, accepting it. She looked down at her hands. They had grown delicate over her time in Maurice's court. She could imagine the pain they would be in tomorrow.

It hardly mattered. She could do what he asked, and her hands would regain their old toughness given time. But, the Dark One's anger was a tangible thing. The more meek and obedient Belle tried to be, the more she could feel it growing, till he added another task to the list.

"And you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts."

Belle dropped the tea set, staring at him in horror.

_Bae_, she thought. _No, no, he can't—he __**can't**__— _

He watched her, smiling so she could see his fangs. He enjoyed her terror for a moment before saying, "That one was a quip. Not serious."

Belle licked dry lips. She needed to pick up the tea set, to clean the tea off the floor, and laugh at his joke—to pretend there hadn't been any cruelty in it. She needed to be patient. She needed to wait, to do what he wanted. As she'd done with Gaston. As (her stomach knotted) she'd done with Jones.

No.

Her voice barely a whisper, she asked, "What do you want with him?"

He stared at her curiously, pretending not to understand. "Whatever do you mean, dearie?"

"My son," her voice shook with fear, despite her best efforts. "What do you want with him? What are you going to do to him?"

He sat down in his chair. "Whatever I want, dearie," he said. "Why? Do you think you can stop me?"

"No—_**no**_**. **You can't. I won't—"

He laughed. "You won't what, dearie? You won't let me? You think you could get in my way? I'm surprised. I'd think you'd be grateful. A common, street woman like you. Look at where you are. In a great castle serving a great lord. Isn't that what you wanted?

"Or do you really expect me to believe you really care about the boy? You want to look at him, here at the end, and really see him and think about what might've been if I hadn't shown up? Is that what you want to do right now? You remember looking at him when he was the littlest babe. Helpless and all yours. Those big, big eyes full of tears, pulling at you." The mocking sweetness in his voice changed, becoming sharp as a knife. "Pulling away your money, your time. Pulling away any hope of making your life into something better for yourself. This pink, naked, squirming little larva that wanted to eat your dreams alive and _never_ stop! How old is he now? Don't you want to be free of him? I gave you the chance. Why didn't you take it? Do you think you impressed anyone with your little act of motherliness? Do you think that oaf who bought and paid for your favors believed any of your playacting? Do you—"

"Enough!" It wasn't till she felt the sting across her palm Belle realized she had struck him in the face. She stared from the Dark One to her hand, horrified. Seven years. Seven years and three centuries ago, she had gone mad with anger and grief and damned herself and Baelfire. She thought she had learned since then. She thought she had killed everything inside her that words could hurt. Belle stared at the Dark One, wondering what he would do to her.

He stared as well, meeting her terrified gaze. He was the one who looked away first. "Clean up the tea," he ordered, his eyes on of the tapestries, the one showing a unicorn chained to a tree.

Hastily, Belle began to pick up the pieces and put them back on the tray. Her breath caught as she realized one of the cups was chipped.

The Dark One must have heard her. "What?" he snapped.

"Oh... my. " The words tumbled out. Too many words. She had already said too much, done too much. But, she had to answer. "I'm so sorry but, uh... it's.. it's chipped. " She held it up. "You—you can hardly see it."

He stared at it, as if he wondered what she was talking about. Then, he looked away again. "It's just a cup."

Moments passed. Her hands were shaking as she rearranged the cups and pot on their tray.

"What do you know of magic?" he asked abruptly.

Belle nearly dropped the tea set again. "Almost nothing," she admitted. She knew the common things everyone knew, wishing for luck, little rhymes to be said over warts, things like that. "Not—not about great magic. Magic like yours."

He nodded. "All magic comes with a price," he told her. His voice was no longer mocking, just tired. "When people come to me for deals, I let them know the price. They complain and moan, but I set the terms down for anyone to read. And I keep my deals. Always. I have never broken a deal—except once." He stopped.

Belle waited. Finally, not sure if it was what he was waiting for, she asked, "What was it?"

"I made a promise. To protect someone. I failed.

"Failure comes with a price, too.

"The price I have to pay. . . ." For a moment, his eyes met hers, searching. He looked away. "A child," he said. "A very specific child. I must find him and . . . care for him. As my own. That child is your son."

"I—I don't understand. Why Bae? I love him, but what makes him so special to you?"

"Magic . . . sometimes has odd terms. He's neither noble nor commoner, a little boy—not even seven, yet he's an ancient man—more than three centuries old. He is more unique than you realize. And . . . I will do what I'm bound to do. I will care for him. I'll love him, if I can." He grimaced. "It's not something I'm known for. But, I will look after him as if—as if he were my own son. If that's what you're afraid of, then don't be. You can trust me with him."

His eyes hardened again. "But, I don't need you. I don't _want_ you. I'm giving you a chance one more time. Leave. I'll give you gold and jewels and anything else your heart desires. Just leave the boy here and go."

Belle believed him. Maybe there was magic in his words, a spell to convince her. Maybe it was only that she'd learned to accept so many things, to ignore the pain and stop fighting what she was powerless to change.

But, it didn't matter if he was telling the truth or not. "No," she whispered. "I thank you. But, no. I can't leave him, not like this."

The Dark One nodded. "Then, tomorrow, you'll begin your work. And you will not trouble me with any complaints. Do you understand?"

Belle nodded.

"Very well, then. You're dismissed. Go look after your boy, if you must. I'm done with you."


	4. Eggs in the Basket

Rumplestiltskin stood outside his son's bedroom, uncertain whether he should go in or not. He might still be sleeping. Or he might be sitting awake in bed, terrified at the changes that had attacked his life yesterday. He hadn't wanted to frighten him. Belle. He'd wanted to frighten Belle, to terrify her so she would be more than ready to let him take the boy.

But, with her or without her, the request had to be made in open court, the terms and reasons explained. Lord Maurice's court was waking up to a world three centuries removed from the one they knew. The nobleman had felt _some_ explanation was in order. It hadn't seemed an unreasonable request when Rumplestiltskin agreed to it, not until he saw the guards dragging a small boy into the room, his eyes full of fear.

Rumplestiltskin looked at the door. He decided to compromise. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. There, that was done.

He could imagine Bae waking up. He would look around the room in confusion, not remembering where he was or how he had gotten there. Then, he would remember what had happened yesterday. He would look around and see—

"Mama?" Bae's voice called out, sounding small and lost. "Mama, where are you?"

Memory came flooding back to Rumplestiltskin. He had come as close to running as his ruined leg would allow since he saw the village over the rise that morning. The places where his bones had been broken felt as if knives were stabbing through them while the muscles around them were on fire, but he didn't care. He didn't see the faces staring at him as he made his hobbling race through the village, not till he reached the door of his home and threw it open only to see—

Dust. He remembered not understanding. Belle was a careful housekeeper. She never allowed dust to pile up, the way it had on the table in the center of the room and on his spinning wheel—and on the small cradle carefully placed beside their bed.

He'd seen, but he hadn't understood.

"Belle?" Rumplestiltskin called. "Belle, where are you?"

"She's gone." Rumplestiltskin would never forget the gloating sound in Hordor's voice. "She's left you, Rumplestiltskin. Women don't like to be married to cowards. . . ."

Rumplestiltskin swallowed, banishing the memory. Cautiously, he opened the door a few inches and looked in. There was Bae, sitting up in bed, a small blanket tightly clenched in his hands (Belle's work, Rumplestiltskin thought, then shoved it aside. He didn't need to think about Belle). Bae looked at his father in fear.

"Your mama's already up," Rumplestiltskin told him, trying to sound bright and pleasant. "She's fixed us breakfast and laid it in the great hall. Would you like to come and eat? Before it gets cold?"

Bae nodded uncertainly. Rumplestiltskin entered the room. Bae, he thought, was like a frightened sheep. When a frightened sheep had half decided you were a wolf getting ready to grab it in you jaws, the last thing you wanted to do was convince it all the way and send it running. Instead of coming straight at Bae, he walked to the side of the room, giving the child plenty of room if wanted to jump and flee. It wasn't that Rumplestiltskin expected him to jump and flee. But, whether he understood it or not, Bae wouldn't feel cornered and trapped.

He found the bathrobe and slippers he'd given Bae last night. He picked them up and put them on the corner end of the bed before backing away again—but not _looking_ as though he were backing away. That would make it too obvious he was trying not to frighten the boy, which would either let the boy think he was in charge (always a headache for an adult) or unnerve him because _the grownup_ was the one acting frightened. Centuries of negotiations had given Rumplestiltskin a razor-edged appreciation for nuance.

"There you go," he said, smiling in the reassuring way of a grownup who understands all the reasons a child might have to be afraid but who knows everything is all right—_really_ all right. He also kept his voice pleasant and gentle.

Bae, still skittish, grabbed the robe and slippers, keeping his eyes on Rumplestiltskin the whole time. But, he followed him into the hallway and, after a moment, let Rumplestiltskin take his hand.

Belle had done what he'd ordered. Two places were neatly set, even though there was only one chair (chagrined, Rumplestiltskin quickly conjured another). It smelled delicious. Rumplestiltskin doubted Belle had had to cook a meal for herself since leaving him. He'd half-expected to find burnt porridge and the charcoaled remains of toast, but this looked wonderful. But, that wasn't what had caught his attention.

Belle had made eggs in the basket. His favorite.

She couldn't know who he was, he told himself. And, if she did, she'd hardly choose this way to tell him. The curse had altered him, given him scales and lizard eyes. His teeth were brown fangs and his hands had matching claws. Before making his deal with Maurice, he'd altered his appearance even more, turning his scales as rough and pebbly as a crocodile's, distorting his face and voice. When he didn't sound like a mad imp, his voice was rougher and deeper than the one Belle would remember. She _couldn't _have known him . . . could she?

But, Bae answered the question as his eyes lit up. "Eggs in the basket! My favorite!"

The fear—if it had been fear—melted away. Bae's favorite. Of course. Like father, like son.

But, Rumplestiltskin felt uneasy all the same. As Bae wolfed down his food in the way only a growing boy could, he looked down at his food. For the first time in three hundred years, he no longer knew what he was getting into.

X

Tying linen bandages around her own hands wasn't an easy task, but Belle managed it. She was exhausted by the time she made her way back up the stairs to the rooms the Dark One had given them. Her hands burned and ached. They were blistered from scrubbing stones and hauling water—the buckets in for the Dark One's well were three times the size of the ones Belle remembered from back home, and it had been years since she had had to do anything that would raise a callus on her hands.

Now, besides the blisters, she also had dozens of small cuts from pounding and separating the strands of wasp nettles. The fibers had a tendency to snap loose and slash back, like a violin string pulled too tight. If violin strings were coated with sap that made your hand burn and swell.

Well, the Dark One had made it clear he was trying to drive her out. She just wouldn't let him. He was cruel but, really, they were such petty cruelties. So far.

Belle remembered some of the punishments Jones had meted out to her and his crew. She remembered the bloodied remains of a man Jones had keelhauled. He'd lived for two days. She wondered what a wizard could do to someone who displeased him. Things worse than keelhauling, she supposed.

Belle reminded him of someone he hated. She understood that. She even understood why. A woman who sold herself, who went from one lover to the next, she deserved to be loathed even by the men who used her (as Jones had pointed out often enough). A choice had been given her—not much of a choice, but a choice all the same—and she'd taken it.

Belle remembered a part of her had hoped, when Lord Maurice had taken her from Jones' ship, that the lord of the Marchlands would go a step farther and punish the captain for what he'd done. Maurice let her know how petty and vain that was. Jones was a captain in good standing in the king's navy. He had done nothing dishonorable except in not recognizing Belle was better born than she appeared—and he could hardly be blamed for that, could he? Not when Belle herself acted like nothing more than a commoner. She had even (it was the horror Maurice could never get past) _bedded down_ with a dirt poor peasant, smelling of dung, and _born his brat._

And preferred that peasant to an officer and a gentleman, like Jones, and even to a great lord, like Gaston. He was the one she dreamt of and wished could hold her at night.

Maurice had reminded her, when she'd told her tale, she'd _chosen_ Jones. There had been honorable alternatives. But, to save a beggar's brat (Rumplestiltskin hadn't been a beggar, but Belle didn't correct Lord Maurice) she'd chosen to sell herself and share a man's bed. She wasn't to compound her sins by blaming an innocent man for her own crimes.

Jones, so Belle later heard, had been one of two officers trusted with a desperate mission when the tide of the Ogre Wars was already turning against them. He and his brother were to fetch a magic herb that could be used to stop them. But, something had gone terribly wrong. They'd failed to get the herb, Jones' brother had died, and the magical sail that was the only way to get more of the herb had been destroyed. Rather than face his shame (and his king), Jones had fled, turning pirate.

Belle had been glad. She hated herself for it, but she had been so happy to know Jones was gone from her life for good. Even if he showed up at Maurice's door promising to save Belle's name by marrying her (something Maurice had suggested at the beginning he might make Jones do. Thank the gods, Lady Rosamonde had refused to consider it).

And Jones' brother. She should not feel this way knowing a man was dead—a man who was known as a hero, who had died helping to drive back the Ogres—but she remembered the times the brothers had met in port and Jones had ordered Belle to entertain the pair of them.

People would die because of the brothers' failure. Innocent people, killed by Ogres. She had no right to feel relieved, to feel _happy _at what had happened. But, she did. She was worse than Jones, gloating over another's pain.

The Dark One was right to loathe her. They said wizards could see your heart. Hers must be a blackened, rotting thing, like fruit caught in an early freeze.

And, whether the Dark One knew it or not, he was kind. Her muscles might ache and her hands might throb, but she'd seen the way he looked at her. He didn't want her in the same room, much less the same bed. If this was all he asked of her, she could endure and be grateful—grateful as she'd never managed to be for Gaston and Maurice, much as she knew she should be.

She made her way up the stairs. Her dress was cold and damp. It sometimes seemed, as she'd slogged up and down stairs with the buckets, that more water went into her skirt than onto the stones. She hoped, if she hung it near the fire, it would dry out before morning. Not that it would stay dry for long. Tomorrow, there would be more of the same.

Bae was already in bed when she reached their room. She moved quietly so as not to wake him, finding a heavy flannel nightgown (Gaston didn't always want her company, and nights could be cold in the Marchlands). She found a pair of simple, knit gloves as well and pulled them over her hands. Bae didn't need to see her bandages.

Wearily, she made her way to the bed, reaching beneath it for the small trundle bed beneath. She winced at the pain in her hands as she pulled it out.

"Mama?"

Bae was looking down at her over the edge of the bed.

"Bae, you're supposed to be asleep."

"Can't sleep. What did you do today?"

Belle forced her voice to be light. "Oh, lots of things. I helped clean the castle and pound up plants." She leaned in close and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I _think_ the wizard must use them for magic. What did you do today?"

That got Bae going. He launched into an excited litany. The Dark One had shown him all over the castle (not all of it, Belle thought, he hadn't seen the kitchens. Or any place she'd been scrubbing). He'd asked Bae about the things he'd studied and shown him how to use a sword ("Just wooden ones," Bae said sadly) and read to him and shown him where he did his magic and asked if Bae could name the herbs hanging from the ceiling and taught him a funny game with cards with fish painted on them and let Bae teach him how to play kick-the-ball.

Bae babbled openly and happily. There was no hidden shame or fear that Belle could see. Perhaps the Dark One was telling the truth about why he wanted Bae.

"Did you make breakfast, Mama? The Dark One said you did."

"Did he? Yes, I made it. Did you like it?" It had been years since Belle cooked, but the kitchen had been full of so much food, bacon, eggs, flour, everything Belle could want. It was Bae's first meal in a strange place. Food, she knew, brought comfort in hard times.

"It's my _favorite_," Bae said. "But, why didn't you eat with us?"

Belle tried to smile. "Well, I had a great deal to do today." She mussed Bae's hair. "I couldn't wait for you slug-a-beds, could I?"

"Tell me a story, Mama?"

"Just one. You need to sleep."

Bae nodded eagerly, lying down. "I'll go to sleep, Mama. I promise. But, you have to tell a story."

"All right, then. This happened in the Borderlands, far away from here. . . ."

Belle kept yawning. Bae did too. She wasn't sure which one of them fell asleep first. But, in the morning, she was lying beside Bae. He had his hand wrapped around her bandaged fingers. She'd been so tired, the pain of his grip hadn't woken her.


	5. Soft Hands and Linen

Baelfire had been at the castle several days, and Rumplestiltskin was beginning to relax. He'd been ready for his son to hate him or be terrified at the sight of him. He'd been afraid, when he finally broke through the spell into Maurice's castle, of finding Bae abused and neglected. It was something Rumplestiltskin had seen often enough in the bargains he'd made for unwanted children. A mother found a new lover who didn't want her spending time or money on the child of her last paramour.

Instead, after the initial terror of their meeting in the ballroom, Bae had warmed to him. He had an open heart, Rumplestiltskin thought, like his mother—or like Rumplestiltskin had once believed Belle had.

Maybe it hadn't been a lie. Maybe something had happened to change her. Or maybe her heart was too open and, with her husband gone to war, that smirking pirate had wormed his way into Rumplestiltskin's place.

But, she had cared for their son. Or she'd seen to it Maurice's servants did. Bae had been well-fed and well-clothed. He'd also been given the beginnings of an education. The boy was intelligent, though more excited to learn sword fighting than to study his books. Well, he was six. He'd been fascinated when Rumplestiltskin showed him how his spinning wheel worked and some of the basics of weaving, along with his other lessons. His natural curiosity had been nurtured and kept strong.

Things had been going well. Till this morning. Rumplestiltskin could see Bae was troubled. It was written all over him in the way he poked disconsolately at his boiled egg. Although, at age six, it could be anything from a bad night's sleep to a broken toy. Rumplestiltskin waited to see if Baelfire would tell him what was bothering him.

Abruptly, Bae said, "You can make medicine, can't you?" He looked up at Rumplestiltskin hopefully. "For sick people?"

Rumplestiltskin looked at Bae. There were no obvious signs of fever or other illness. But, he could see signs the he hadn't slept well, and the child looked worried. "Yes, I can. Do you feel unwell?"

"Not me," Bae said. "Mama. She cried a lot last night. She thought I was asleep, but I heard her. And her hands bled."

"What?" Rumplestiltskin felt a moment's shock, followed quickly by suspicion. Was Belle using her son to try and make him feel sorry for her? She'd probably known all along Bae he could hear her "crying."

As for the blood, it was probably nothing more than a paper cut—or stains from fruit in the kitchens.

"Bae, I'm sure she's all right. She probably just cut herself in the kitchen. It happens." And he should give her extra chores for her pathetic playacting—especially if she was trying to turn Bae against him.

"It wasn't," Bae said. "She wears gloves when she goes to bed, but the red soaked through. I could see it. _Please,_ you have to help her."

Rumplestiltskin tried not to glare. As far as manipulation wend, she'd succeeded very neatly in backing him into a corner. He wasn't going to get out of this, not without convincing Baelfire he was a heartless monster (which he was, but there was no reason for Bae to know that). "Let's go find her, then," Rumplestiltskin said. "Even if it's only a blister, I can put an ointment on it." And let Baelfire see this was a great deal of pathetic fuss over nothing.

Their breakfast left behind, the two set off. Belle should be scrubbing the south hall today, Rumplestiltskin thought (he'd been careful to make it look as though a herd of pigs had come storming through, danced a few polkas, rolled around on the marble, and then taken care to shake off any mud that might have still been clinging to them before ambling on their way).

Belle was there, scrubbing at the stones, a large (heavy) bucket nearby. "Madam!" Rumplestiltskin said (he had no intention of using her name). "A word with you!"

Belle stood up hastily but couldn't disguise the weariness of her motions. Rumplestiltskin, glaring at her, had to admit she did look pale (though that might just be quite sensible fear at having him come hunting for her) and there were dark circles under her eyes. Perhaps she really was tired. Well, the tasks he'd given her _had _been meant to wear her down, to convince her to give up and go.

The skirt of her dress was damp and smelled of mildew. Velvet was hardly the right cloth for lugging buckets of water and scrubbing at marble floors. Why didn't she wear something else? But, he remembered the ball gowns he'd seen her in, light silks, plunging necklines, and corseted within an inch of her life. Were all her other clothes like that? Or (he glowered) was wearing a moldy dress just another way of manipulating Bae to feel sorry for her?

"Your son said you'd hurt your hands," he said brusquely. "Let me see them."

"It's—it's nothing, my lord," Belle said.

"I don't doubt it. Let me see them all the same."

Belle looked at Bae, who stood a little behind Rumplestiltskin, watching anxiously. Then, she stepped towards Rumplestiltskin, standing so he was between her and Bae.

The child wouldn't see her "injuries" this way. Didn't want the boy to know she'd been making a great deal out of nothing, did she? She held up her hands, which were covered in black, leather gloves. Awkwardly, she began to fiddle with one, trying to take it off. Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. She was laying it on thick, wasn't she? "Allow me."

He pulled the glove off, a scathing comment already on his lips. Then, he saw the knit glove Belle was wearing underneath. It was made from white wool. Or what had been white wool. Now, they were stained, red in some places, urine-shaded yellow in others, with reddish brown mixes of both. The yarn was damp with pus and blood. Belle had gone several shades paler from the pain when he'd yanked the black one off, though she bit her lip and kept silent.

Carefully this time, Rumplestiltskin removed the glove the second glove. It was wet to his touch, even though the hand beneath it was bandaged, swathed in linen. As he began to unwrap the bandages, Belle gasped in pain. She bit her lip again, holding back any other self-betrayals. He studied her face, seeing how she was trying to keep still and calm—and quiet. She was fighting not to let out the smallest whimper. But, he could see the pain in the lines around her eyes and in the way her shoulders tensed, anticipating the next blow. As gently as he could, Rumplestiltskin went back to unwrapping it.

The pus was from the blisters. Some had burst, some merely seeped around the edges. Blisters provided some of the blood blisters too, oozing the red-browns stains he'd seen. Mostly, it came from the thin, razor slices on her hand.

He stared at it, not understanding. He'd expected blisters on the first day. But, those should have begun to heal by now, especially with if she were protecting her hands with layers of linen and gloves.

Except he'd given her the wasp nettles to deal with, and their sap would irritate the hurts and keep them fresh. The strands would sting her hands, making cuts in the skin.

But, not like _this_. He remembered Belle's hands, calloused and thick-skinned from all the work she did on their small holding. Yes, the tasks he'd given her should have been enough to work through that, to irritate the skin. It should have beenlike a small rash or a touch of sunburn. And a few, thin cuts. Enough pain, enough exhaustion to drive her back to her soft life.

Soft life. There'd been a night at Lord Maurice's, when Rumplestiltskin was still cautiously examining the curse and its people, when he'd disguised himself with magic and entered the ballroom (the courtier whose place he'd taken had slept that night in a closet). In a complex dance, as the people passed from partner to partner, he'd briefly held her hands for the few steps they'd been joined together. They'd been so soft. Like silk, like petals. They weren't the hands of a poor weaver's wife any more.

He'd known this. It had registered clearly in his mind. He'd been angry at the feel of them—this was what she'd left him for, soft hands and silk dresses. He'd glowered at her till she stumbled in her steps before he tossed her aside to her next partner, despising the soft feel of her skin.

He'd _known. _And he'd done this to her anyway.

Rumplestiltskin didn't bother with the stairs. He snapped his fingers, bringing the three of them to his workroom in a cloud of mauve smoke. He pulled out clean linen from the supplies he kept on hand—life-threatening injuries were common in people desperate enough to call on him and he liked to be to be prepared—and quickly rewrapped Belle's hand. With a wave of his claws, a small bench moved over to the wall. Rumplestiltskin led her over to it. "Sit there," he ordered, letting her lean back and rest. He went over to the tea set (if Bae noticed it was the same tea set that had been in the great hall while they had breakfast, he didn't ask how it had brought itself up here) and poured a hot cup, adding a pinch of crumpled herbs from a certain jar. Then, he breathed on it. He'd been called a dragon, but dragons were ice as well as fire. The tea cooled to lukewarm.

He handed it to Bae. "Hold that for your mother to drink. She shouldn't touch it, not with her hands." He remembered how even mild pressure could hurt a wound like that. And the warmth of the cup could be agonizing against raw skin.

Bae nodded, tight-lipped, and brought it over to Belle. Belle, however, was not quite as trusting. "What is it?" she asked.

"Tea," Rumplestiltskin said. "Mostly. And something for the pain. It may make you a little tired, nothing more." His voice turned rougher, almost angry. "When you bleed like that, your body needs water."

"Please, Mama," Bae said, pressing the cup towards her. He was frightened, more frightened than he'd been when he'd told Rumplestiltskin about this. Because the adults were taking it seriously. They were just as afraid as he was. But, being able to do something would make him feel less helpless.

Belle seemed to understand that, too. She managed a smile (more sincere than the ones Rumplestiltskin had seen her giving her paramour as she played up to him. This one actually reached her eyes). "Of course, Bae. If you'll help me?"

While they were busy, Rumplestiltskin quickly measured herbs and certain powders into a mortar and pounded them together. He put them in a small pot and added oil pressed from a very rare plant. He stirred it with a silver spoon and, with a flick of his hand, conjured a small flame under it.

Then, he got out a crystal bowl. It was cut and faceted so it glittered like a diamond. He filled it with water. After that, he fetched a small vial and added just a pinch of dried, crushed ice flowers to it. When the water took on a very slight glow of its own, cold and clear, he nodded.

He glanced at Belle. She'd finished the tea and was talking to Bae, still smiling. But, he could see how weary she was. All the same, the boy's fear had eased considerably. Rumplestiltskin sighed inwardly. It would be an act of petty malice to force Belle to stand over here for the time the next step would take. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but. . . .

He flicked his fingers, and another, small table appeared. "Make way, dearies," he said. Belle and Bae looked up and saw the table. Rumple waved it over, and it scurried towards them. Rumplestiltskin brought over the glittering bowl and placed it in front of her. "Bae, there's a hat down in the great hall, blue with stars and moons on it. I need you to fetch it for me, will you?" Bae nodded and scampered off. Rumplestiltskin began to unwrap the fresh linen he'd just put on Belle's hand. It was already damp, showing yellow in some spots and red in others, but it had served its purpose, hiding her injuries from the boy.

"Thank you," Belle said. "For doing this. And for not letting Bae see."

Rumplestiltskin lip twitched. She understood why he'd sent the boy off. That was Belle, always a clever one. "I should be thanking you. Or did you really not see what a perfect chance you wasted to make me look bad in front of the boy?" He finished with the bandage. "Here, put your hand in the water."

Belle put it in and gasped at the icy coldness, then let out a breath as the pain drained away. Rumplestiltskin began to remove the black glove from her other hand. Abruptly, he said, "I hadn't meant this." He glared at her, daring her to take his words for weakness. Or sympathy for her. "You know what I think of you, but . . . I hadn't meant this." He hesitated. But, enemy or not—and she was an enemy. Or, at the very least, a threat to everything he was trying to do with Bae, and a woman who would betray those closest to her without a second thought—he was the Dealmaker. He knew when he owed a debt. And when it had to be paid. He forced the words out. "I'm sorry."

Belle didn't seem to realize how momentous those words were from him. He might as well have commented on the weather. "I agreed to your terms," she said simply. She gritted her teeth as the black glove came off and he started on the white one beneath. "You have nothing to apologize for."

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "Crippling you wasn't part of the deal. You're a servant, not a sacrifice." Both the gloves were off. He began working on the bandages. "How often have you been changing these?"

"The last two days, every couple of hours or so. Whenever I finish scrubbing and come back to the kitchen."

And they'd still nearly soaked through in that time. "How have you been treating them? Have you used any herbs or medicines?"

"I clean them with soap and water when I change the bandages. I found dried herbs in the kitchen to make a poultice, and I soaked them in cold water every night before bed. I think that helped." She sounded exhausted as she said it. It wasn't just the tea. Her hands must have burned with pain at night. Wounds like that could make it impossible to sleep, as Rumplestiltskin well knew. Then, if she finally did get some rest, the slightest movement—anything that touched her hands—would have been like being seared with a branding iron.

The last of the bandages came loose. He turned her hand up to look at her palm. "You scrubbed the floors with these?" he asked incredulously before lowering it into the water.

Belle gasped again, and seemed to shrink back. Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if it was fear—or pretended fear—or just the cold shock of the water. "It—it was what you ordered," she said.

"Orders be cursed, how did you stay _conscious?_" Rumplestiltskin remembered the pain in his leg when he'd crushed it—and the burning agony whenever it was struck afterwards until it healed. He remembered learning that what the storytellers and healers called red waves of pain was a literal phrase. The whole world could turn into a bright, blood colored haze.

Belle shrugged. "The gloves helped."

He glared at her, not sure if she was mocking him. "Well, you proved your point. It will take more than pain to drive you out, won't it?"

The blood drained from her face. "More?" she asked.

He frowned at her. He was letting himself get distracted, getting careless with words, something he almost never did. Rumplestiltskin remembered Cora and the way she'd tricked him. But, even then, he'd kept track of how he'd altered their deal. He just hadn't expected how she would play it against him. "More than I'm willing to do, dearie. For now. Round one to you. You realize this only means I'll come out fighting on round two."

She nodded very somberly. He sighed inwardly. This wasn't like Belle. Whether she'd agreed with him or not, she'd always at least _understood _his jokes. What was wrong with her? Other than pain and lack of sleep and being carried off by a fiend to his enchanted castle?

Just then, Bae came rushing in, gripping the wizard's hat. "I've got it!"

Rumplestiltskin forced his attention away from Belle and smiled at the boy (careful not to show his teeth). "Back already? Come here and let me show you what I'm going to do. . . ."

The hat wasn't really necessary. All magic came with a price. What he was doing now had very little magic in it. The water had cooled and soothed Belle's hands, easing the swelling. If it did it more quickly and more thoroughly than normal water, well, that was a small thing. The same with the ointment he had brewed. Without the whisper of enchantment in it, it would still fight off any infection and help her torn flesh (Rumplestiltskin felt a stab of guilt. Even work roughened, Belle had always had the most beautiful hands) knit back together. The slight touch that had been added to it would make her wounds heal faster and see that any infection lost the fight before it began. That was all.

He _could _have healed her with a touch. He'd healed far worse easily enough, and yet. . . .

He had not meant to bring Belle here or give her any foothold in his life. Yet, here she was, and he didn't know what would come of it. Normally, when he offered magic, he saw the price clearly and set the terms to see it paid. Something told him anything with Belle was likely to be . . . tangled. Quickly.

Besides, he knew enough in simple terms to understand what he was doing _was_ paying the right price. He might not care about Belle personally—there might have been times over the centuries when he _would_ have gladly pulled out her heart and laughed as he crushed it in front of her—but Bae loved her. She might be more worthless and treacherous than Rumplestiltskin's own father, but he was beginning to believe she genuinely returned her child's love. As much as she loved anything.

He had been careless. He had done more harm than he meant—harm that could have driven the boy from him—because he couldn't bother to pay attention. It was right, then, that he pay for it now—with time, with care, with hard won supplies that would take more time and care to replace.

So, he held up the hat, pointed end down, and blew across the rim just as he'd blown across the tea cup. The flame went out and the boiling ointment cooled and congealed, the hat erasing any slight taint of dark magic from the brew. He took the pot and placed it beside the crystal bowl. After that, he fetched more linen and a towel. He lifted out Belle's hand, the one that had soaked the longest. The swelling was gone and the blisters had all receded. They looked far less serious than they had only moments ago, as though they'd been popped a day or two before and were beginning to heal. The cuts were closed, just thin, red lines. Bae still gasped at the sight of them. "Mama! Does it _hurt?_"

Belle gave him a smile. Rumplestiltskin graded it as tired but sincere. "No, the pain's gone away. They're fine now."

Rumplestiltskin snorted. "They are _not_ fine. Not yet. But, they will be. Bae, watch closely. I want you to learn how this is done. . . ." He dried her hand then spread thick dollops of ointment over it. "Don't try to be stingy," he cautioned. "Using too much won't hurt. Using too little will." He spread it between her fingers and made sure to press carefully around her nails—the space between the fingertip and the nail was easy to miss, but it was one of the most sensitive, especially if the injuries festered.

He showed Bae how to wrap the bandages, doing each finger individually, and how to tie them off. Then, he started to work on Belle's second hand. Soon, both were wrapped, her injuries hidden from view—Bae's or anyone else's.

"You should go back to your room and rest," he said brusquely. He glared at her again. "Obviously, I need to change your chores. I'll need time to think up the new list. You might as well catch up on your beauty rest." He would have added a sneering _you need it_, just to keep her in her place, but he could see Bae listening to every word. He reined in his irritation. "I'll send down more tea. Drink some before you go to sleep. Bae, you're to help her with that. And with the buttons on her dress. Leave the thing out for me, and I'll see if I can't get rid of that smell."

"I—I don't have any other work clothes," Belle said.

She meant nothing she could get into without five maids tying a rib crushing corset onto her. Why did the nobles bother with such monstrosities? Belle was slender enough. Why risk breaking bones and bruising organs to make her look like a half-starved stick? "I'll provide you some. Is there any color you'd prefer?" He remembered a blue dress Belle had worn in the old days and her rose red of her ball gown.

"Black," Belle said. "Please. If—if it's all right."

"Black." He stared at her blankly. "Why?"

She bit her lip. Then, her eyes fell as if she were ashamed. "I—I am in mourning."

He stared, not understanding. "Mourn—" then, it hit him, and he sneered. "Oh, yes. Three hundred years. Your husband must be good and dead by now. Did you finally figure that out? Or are do you mean Lady Rosamonde? She's been dead even longer, hasn't she?"

"Yes—No—_Please_. If—if it's no trouble to you—"

"Oh, no trouble at all." He leaned in close so he could hiss without Baelfire hearing the words. "I always enjoy _hypocracy._"

He took himself away in a puff of smoke, back to the great hall. The food had gotten cold. He glared at the boiled egg (boiled. Instead of fried or made into eggs in a blanket. Because her hands couldn't manage anything more). There was an island he remembered on the other side of the world, hundreds of leagues beyond Agrabah. He remembered a food stall beneath a large tree in one of its more crowded towns that did tolerable meals. It was also as far away from here as he could get.

But, before he left, he made sure to send the tea to Bae's room along with some bread and fruit. Bae hadn't eaten breakfast, after all. And he would stop back on his way for some warm clothes. In black.


	6. Might Have Been

Belle rose early as she had ever since coming to the Dark Castle. The difference was that, today, she felt well-rested and not afraid—not _as_ afraid—of what the day would bring. She flexed her fingers, feeling them press against the bandages without any pain.

The Dark One said he hadn't given up. But, Belle had learned to take the good moments life gave her, no matter how short they might be.

She went over to the chest where her things were. The Dark One had taken her velvet dress. Though he'd promised her others, she expected she'd have to make do today. She sighed. All the dresses Gaston gave her were so awful—and so thin and flimsy in the Dark Castle's chill halls.

But, there were new clothes already folded neatly on top of the chest, three black dresses along with stockings, shifts, and everything else she needed. There was even a black shawl and two pairs of very practical looking shoes. She dressed quickly and quietly, careful not to wake Bae.

The buttons and ties were simple enough. She found, when she pushed the buttons through their holes, her fingertips were still raw enough to sting. It felt like trying to untwist the lid from a jar that didn't want to come off. Not painful, not exactly, but a warning that pushing much harder could become so. She was grateful for how few buttonholes she had to deal with.

The cut of the dress was a different. She supposed fashions after three centuries (had it _really_ been three centuries? Lord Maurice had believed it. But, how was it possible?) would have changed. What mattered was that she could move easily in it and thought the cloth felt well-made and sturdy enough for scrubbing floors in. Still, odd cut aside, it fitted well.

Belle felt a small twinge of fear. She'd dealt with Gaston dressing her up like a doll and with Jones before that dressing her up . . . less like a doll. She put her gold locket around her neck and found her hand tightening around it till the newly healed skin stung.

But, the dress covered her as completely as the black velvet had. She didn't need to worry about what it did or didn't reveal. When she pulled her hair back into a simple braid, held in place with a black ribbon, she didn't need to worry about arranging it to hide anything. Not the way she had with Gaston, who always preferred her to have her hair hanging down her back when he summoned her to his rooms, just in case.

Never mind. The Dark One didn't look at her that way. She wasn't even sure he was a man. She found the thought comforting. Whatever he was, perhaps he found the sight of her—pale-skinned, scaleless and fangless—repulsive.

Belle stepped out into the hallway and went looking for the Dark One. She hesitated. He'd _told_ her the castle would show her the way, but he hadn't really explained it, had he?

Belle looked up and down the corridor, looking for some sign. Finally, she cleared her throat. "Er," she asked the walls. "I need to find the Dark One. Can you help me?"

The candles lighting the hall one way dimmed. The others brightened. Belle swallowed. The magic she'd seen so far was always when the Dark One was present, snapping his fingers or waving a hand. Compared to taking her and Bae from Maurice's court to the Dark Castle in an instant, flickering candles were nothing. But, it was the first magic she'd seen here that happened when he wasn't present—that happened because of something _she'd_ done.

Assuming the brighter candles were leading the way (not, she thought, a certainty when she was in the _Dark_ Castle searching for the _Dark _One), she followed them. At first, Belle thought they were leading her to the tower workroom, but they veered off. She followed them up and down more stairs and through more corridors (and wondered if this was part of the "round two" the Dark One had promised her) when she saw the door to one of the rooms up ahead left partly open. The candles were lit by it but not beyond.

She would have knocked on the door, but it swung all the way open as she approached. She looked in and saw small room that looked like the corner of one of the castle attics back in the Marchlands. There were trunks, chests, and assorted boxes carefully piled, one on top of the other. Bits of old furniture were hidden beneath sheets to keep the dust off. The Dark One stood at the far end of the room by the window. There was an old, cedar chest in front of him, its lid thrown back. He was holding a rag doll in his hand.

It was a simple doll, the sort any little girl back in Belle's home village might have had. It had painted-on, pale-blue eyes and hair made from red-brown yarn. It wore a fanciful ball gown made from simple linen died a happy yellow—or a ball gown imagined by someone who'd never seen one. Of course, Gaston would never have given Belle a gown like that even if it were silk or cloth of gold. It's slight, embroidered bodice showed far too much shoulder and back (and not enough front, she thought sourly). There was something sad and faraway in the way the Dark One looked at it. Then, he looked up at her.

The yellow streaks in his eyes blazed. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"You—you sent for me," Belle said, backing away. "You said to come—the candles showed me the way—I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

His glare turned to disgust. "Don't grovel. It's no matter. Only you took me by surprise." He looked at the doll. "Well?" he snapped at Belle. "I'm sure you have an annoying question or two."

Belle was sure she had had questions a moment ago, but they'd scattered in the face of his anger. She looked at the doll, desperate for something to say. She'd seen the melancholy look on his face, and he'd told her he'd had a wife. . . . "Did you have a daughter?"

He looked at the doll. There was a grief in his eyes like the grief she felt when she thought of Rumplestiltskin. "No," he said. He looked at the chest. Belle thought he meant to put the doll away and end the conversation. Instead, after a moment he said, "She was like a daughter to me. Her mother was a widow. She'd come to live in our village—I lived in a village in those days—after her husband died. It was a year after—after my wife left." He studied the doll morosely. "The widow suffered spells. She'd been injured in the same fire that killed her husband. A beam had fallen and hit her in the head. When the spells struck her, she just stared at nothing. Morraine—that was her daughter—wandered off during one of them. She was only about a year old. I found her crying on my doorstep. I helped care for her after that." He put the doll away in the chest and closed the lid. "They both died a long time ago. I couldn't save them."

Belle put one hand to her locket. "And, since then . . . you've been alone?" Impulsively, she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. "I—I know what it is to lose someone you love."

He glared at her, eyes blazing again, and she thought he was going to throw her hand off. But, he swallowed his anger and simply nodded. She thought, for a moment, there was even something like sympathy in his gaze. "Your aunt died to save you," he said. "It may not make the hurt less, but it's something. Hold onto it."

Lady Rosamonde. Belle felt a stab of guilt. She hadn't even been thinking of her—it seemed strange that the Dark One's mind would even jump to her rather than Rumplestiltskin. But, Rumplestiltskin had been seven years dead before Lady Rosamonde had done whatever it was she'd done to save them. He'd never set foot in Lord Maurice's court and his shadow or echo or whatever it was of Rosamonde's that Belle had spoken to each evening for three hundred years had never been there for the Dark One to see.

And Belle still didn't couldn't make sense of what the Dark One had told them, how Lady Rosamonde had rescued them from the Ogres. "I still don't understand," Belle said. "What was it Lady Rosamonde did? How did she save us? Why did. . . ." Belle swallowed, then plunged ahead. "I saw Lord Maurice with a knife by her bedside. I heard what she said to him. He killed her, didn't he? Why?"

"Ah," there was a glint of malicious humor in the Dark One's eyes. "That's a long tale and—" He looked around the room. It was not so much a storage space for forgotten odds and ends, Belle found herself thinking, as a place where the Dark One hid his memories. "—not one I should be telling here." He led her out of the room and down the hallway. The door closed silently behind them.

"Lady Rosamonde's family had been the guardians of certain bits and pieces of old magic. One of them was a curse, a very ancient and terrible one. In the hands of someone more . . . creative than Lord Maurice, it could have been worse. He could have cast it and taken the Marchlands to another Realm, if he'd wanted. He could change nearly anything he liked in your little land, reshaped it as he wished—including a great many ills he could have patched up and fixed. But, I suppose he lacked the imagination to think of it. Even if he had, it might have been better not to. All magic comes with a price, dearie. This one was already costly enough.

"It gave you food, homes that were mended and safe, and everything else you needed. It also trapped you in time, forever living over the same day, and in place. If anyone tried to leave the Marchlands, something would happen to stop them, something unpleasant. It was a curse, after all. But, no one could get in, no matter how hard they tried. The ones who tried too hard—like the Ogres—well, let's just say that bad things happen to bad people. Unless the person's me. It took a while, but I found my way around it.

"But, all that safety the curse gave you came at a high price, the heart of whoever the caster loved best. That's why Maurice killed his wife. Without her heart, he couldn't cast the spell."

She told him to, Belle realized. She'd heard what Rosamonde said to Maurice. And Rosamonde had been dying, her long, terrible illness finally working towards its end. Belle still shuddered, wondering how Maurice had been able to force himself to do it.

She looked at the Dark One. He spoke so lightly, as if all this death and loss were just a good joke played on Maurice and his subjects. "You know a great deal about it. Is it—is it your kind of magic?"

That amused him more than Rosamonde's murder. The Dark One laughed. "I came along years too late, dearie. The curse was long cast by the time I stumbled across your kingdom. Just finding a weakness that would let me through took long enough. Creating something like that, even for me, would have taken centuries." Then, his humor vanished. "And I couldn't have paid the price. The hearts I could have used were long gone. And, for what it's worth, I doubt I could have killed them, not even for this."

A set of double doors swung open for them. "Ah," he said. "This is what I needed to show you." They entered a large, round room (Belle thought they were at the top of a tower) full of books—more books than Belle had ever seen. Some had been properly shelved, others were rammed into bookcases or haphazardly stacked in the shelves, one on top of another. Others lay in piles on tables, chairs, even the floor. "This is your new task. As you can see, the place is a mess. You're to take care of it. Get them straightened out and organized. Keep them dusted. Oh, and tell me if you need more shelves. I expect you'll need to look through them before you arrange them. Take your time. There's no point in just throwing them around if you can't find them later."

"I—I—" Belle looked around, unable to believe what he was offering her. Books, so many books. And he was telling her to take the time to ready through as many as she wanted. How did he even know she loved books? They were the one thing besides Bae that had made life in Maurice's castle bearable.

What, she wondered fearfully, did this have to do with his second round and his desire to be rid of her? But, when she met his eyes, he seemed to be looking at her almost shyly, waiting to see how she liked his gift. "Thank you. _Thank you_. I'll take good care of them. You have my word."

He nodded, then turned severe. "You'll continue to make and serve breakfast, although I suppose you may as well join Bae and me when we eat our meals. If nothing else, it will let me keep an eye on you. You'll also serve tea and run any other errands I give you. And Bae. You're to keep an eye on Bae. I intend to see him educated, and he'll continue spending part of his day with me. But, I have work to attend to, and can't have him always under foot. He'll be your responsibility when that happens. Do you understand?"

These past days, the only time Belle had spent with Bae was when she was almost too exhausted to speak. This gift meant more to her than the books. "Thank you," Belle said. She tried to put her feelings into words, but it was impossible. "I know what you're doing for me." That was the best she could manage and it was so inadequate. "Thank you."

The Dark One scowled. "I'm only being practical, dearie. I may yet have to take on more servants to keep the boy out of mischief, but you'll do for now. Which reminds me, I need to change those bandages and see how your hands are doing. Then, you'd better get to work on breakfast. Bae will be waking up soon and expecting to eat. I have no more desire to deal with a tired, hungry six year old than you do."

This was wonderful, the kind of life Belle had only dreamed of having. Even if it was just a feint, a distraction before the next salvo in the war the Dark One seemed to think he was waging with her, Belle meant to enjoy every moment of it. If this was a trap, she couldn't stop herself from falling into it even if she saw the way out. And she didn't. If he meant to trap her, he'd won already.

But, later, as she put muffins into the oven, Belle thought about what the Dark One had told her about Lady Rosamonde's curse. Maurice had been able to shape their land any way he wanted too. He had even changed their memories, so they simply accepted that the war with the Ogres had been won.

If he could change their memories—if he could change anything in their world—

He could have given Belle a different life. He could have fulfilled Rosamonde's wish, making the world one where Belle had been raised as his and Rosamonde's daughter. And he hadn't.

Would being Gaston's wife have been any better than being his mistress?

In her heart, she knew it would be. Gaston wasn't Jones. He'd never been cruel to her, not really. But, there were rules in Gaston's world. A mistress' first purpose was to amuse her lord. A wife's first purpose was to command respect. The honor she received reflected back on her husband. He'd have expected her to do her duty, but there would have been none of the—none of the rest of it.

And, really, compared to Jones, Gaston's games had been almost innocent. And he'd never laughed at her pain the way Jones did.

_Stop pretending, love, _she heard Jones' voice whisper. _You enjoy it, every moment of it. All women do. . . ._

Jones. Maurice could have let Belle forget about Jones. And he could have made a land where Gaston accepted Baelfire as his own son and heir, a world where she wasn't always fighting to ensure her son's safety.

She closed her eyes, trying to shove the thoughts and memories away. Lord Maurice, as Lady Rosamonde said, lacked imagination. The Dark One had agreed. Likely, changing the world so completely wasn't even been something he could think of, that was all. And he'd had an army of Ogres on his front doorstep keeping his attention. He'd had no reason to waste time on a minor, insignificant girl who (as everyone said) had already risen far above what a bastard like her deserved. According to the Dark One, that blindness of Lord Maurice's was even a good thing. The greater the change, the greater the price.

And why shouldn't Maurice ignore her? She knew the rumors, but that's all they were. Belle had promised never to ask, never to say anything that even suggested she had a suspicion who her father was. That some people said she had Lord Maurice's square jaw or that he had spent more and more time with his wife's sister than was seemly once Rosamonde fell ill, these were just rumors. They meant nothing. Lady Rosamonde might have claimed Belle as her own if Elise hadn't fled the court, but that was before her sons were killed in the Ogre War, when a bastard daughter would have meant nothing to Maurice's legacy. She could have been anyone's daughter, and Maurice might have adopted her to save his wife's family name.

And, of course, if Rosamonde had raised her, there would have been no Bae for Maurice to take into consideration, no half-peasant child with claims of his own—a child Lord Maurice would be willing to sell to a demon rather than risk him someday growing up to challenge Gaston's inheritance.

That the demon had been kind to Bae and even seemed (_seemed!_) to care about him weren't things Maurice could have known, much as Belle wanted to tell herself otherwise.

And . . . it didn't make a difference, did it? Whatever had happened, Belle had food to cook and a meal to serve. She had a master who let her wear mourning, even if he mocked her for it.

Belle thought of the doll. Even if he mocked her, he understood grieving for someone you'd lost. Even if he didn't believe Belle grieved.

And none of it mattered. What Belle felt or didn't feel didn't matter, not when there were chores to do and another day to get through.

It never had.


	7. Monsters and Men

**Note: **For those waiting for her to say it, I don't think this Belle will ever tell Rumple he's not a monster. That's not such a bad word to her. Monsters aren't as terrifying to her as some of the men she's known.

X

Back in the Marchlands, watching as Belle swirled around the dance floor, Rumplestiltskin had almost been tempted to relent. He'd felt an ache inside him. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered. He had known a poor peasant in rough woolens with callused hands and stray hairs always slipping out of her braid. Now, she was like a jewel that had found its proper setting at last. Her tall lover might not impress him (or anyone) with his wit, but he was a fitting match for her: handsome, of noble blood, and heir to all these lands. He was also (Rumplestiltskin grudgingly admitted) a great warrior, nothing like the coward she had married.

Rumplestiltskin knew enough about Gaston's part in defending the Marchlands to admit Gaston didn't just look like a balladeer's idea of a noble knighthood, all tall and shiny and just standing around waiting for someone to cast him in bronze; he was the genuine article. He had fought Ogres and planned battles. He had organized defenses and helped the Marchlands stand as long as they did. True, military matters had eaten up what little brain power he had. But, you can't have everything, can you? Tall, heroic, and less wit than a brick. If you didn't mind having to actually listen to him for the rest of your life while craning your neck to look up and pretend you were interested, Rumplestiltskin supposed he could see the appeal.

And he was tall. Had Rumplestiltskin mentioned tall?

Rumplestiltskin had been cruel when he came for Bae. He knew it. After what Belle had done, he told himself, he had a _right_ to be.

And, yet, once he had Bae, once they had gone and left her behind, that would have been enough. He'd made his deal with Maurice. The Marchlands would be protected and prosper. Belle would have gone on with whatever she had with the stupid, man-shaped tower.

There had been times when he would have done worse. If he had met her in the early days of his curse, still giddy and drunk with power, still . . . _learning _ how to think and act like a man again (sometimes. Other times, humanity was severely overrated. Not to mention more boring than a conversation with Gaston), he could imagine the revenge he would have taken. He could have torn her still-beating heart out of her chest and let her watch as he crushed hit to dust before her eyes. Better yet, he could have taken her _lover's _heart and crushed_ that_ before her eyes (the thought still amused him. It was just as well his deal with Maurice precluded killing his heir in interesting ways. Or uninteresting).

Even when he came for Bae, angry as he'd been, there was a part of him that was glad he hadn't met her again till now, when he knew he wouldn't hurt her. Much.

He had seen her glide through the complex steps of court dances as gracefully and effortlessly as a swan on the water. Her deep red skirts blossomed out like a rose as she spun, then closed protectively around her, like a moon flower facing the dawn, as she stilled.

Beauty was a shallow thing, he told himself. But, let her have it, beauty, and wealth, and the adoration of kings. He would leave her here, safe, protected, valued as if she were the princess she seemed.

And, if taking her son was a little like ripping her heart out . . . he could live with that.

Or so he'd told himself. Till he'd seen Bae dragged into the ballroom, shaking with fear. Till he'd seen Belle's terror and desperation as he tried to take the boy (and not felt even half the satisfaction he'd expected, no matter how he played the part). Till he'd seen Bae's own terror and known he couldn't be the dark shadow that ripped a boy out of his parent's arms.

Till he'd seen Belle's love for the son she'd born to a man she despised, a man she'd left without a backward glance.

Till he'd seen her work through crippling pain rather that break the deal she'd made that let her stay near her son.

They'd come to a kind of guarded peace since. He began to give the boy some of his lessons in the library when Belle was there. "All the better to distract you, dearie," he'd said when they kept interrupting her as she tried to work (which would have felt more like a victory if Belle hadn't been smiling so warmly when they did it). He watched them from his tower as Bae played in the gardens, his mother watching over him or joining in on his games.

Then, one day, as Baelfire was busy working over a list of sums Rumplestiltskin had given him to figure, he pulled a book out of one of the still untidy shelves, _The Tale of Britomart, _and handed it to her.

"What's this?" Belle asked.

"The story of a woman knight," Rumplestiltskin said. "Britomart. She went on a quest to rescue her true love. She also rescued quite a few other people on the way. And saw the world." He saw the light in Belle's eyes as he said the last. Ah, yes, he might not understand everything she had done, but he knew her that well. "Read it and tell me what you think."

Over the next few days, he would ask a few questions, and she would tell him about which part she was reading. "I would have liked a magic spear like hers," Belle said wistfully at one point.

"To slay monsters, dearie?" He grinned toothily. "To slay me?"

Belle laughed and shook her head, amused at the suggestion. "In the story, the real monsters are men attacking . . . attacking anyone weaker."

"I seem to recall some Ogres who do the same."

Belle's eyes darkened. "Yes, that's why I would have liked the spear. I could have gone with my husband when the Ogres attacked. I could have been with him when. . . ." She shook her head, unable to say it. "I could have helped."

It shook him. Later, he thought of a hundred pithy things he could have said, words that would have drawn blood. _Helped the Ogres finish him off, dearie? _At the time, all he could see was the grief in her eyes, real and raw, as if the war were yesterday. There was none of the anger or disgust he expected, no justifications for abandoning her coward husband.

He spent a long time spinning that night, trying to make sense of it. She'd left him for another man. Rumplestiltskin had learned about Jones—Hook, as the mermaids called him—as he'd tracked Belle. The man was the last person he'd have wanted near his son, much less rearing him. _That_ was what Belle had chosen to replace him.

But . . . he knew how cruel the villagers could be. He remembered the way they looked at him when he returned. Or didn't look at him, their eyes moving away in shame whenever he came by. They wouldn't even speak to him unless they had to. Except Hordor and his bootlicking toadies.

_Kiss my boot._

Rumplestiltskin remembered Hordor looking down on him while Morraine stood by, trembling. He remembered Hordor's eyes on the girl, the hungry look in them as his gaze took in her honey-gold hair, the way he slowly lingered over the slight curves that were more a promise of the woman she would become than actuality. "It's treason to avoid service," Hordor said. "I'll take her now." He grinned at Rumplestiltskin. "She'll ride with me."

Till the day he died, Rumplestiltskin would never regret Hordor's death.

That had been the man ruling the village when news came of Rumplestiltskin's cowardice, his survival when everyone else died. Even before that, Belle had faced the long months of pregnancy alone. There had been no one to help her, to try and lift some of her burdens as she struggled to maintain their small holding. When the time came and Bae was born, had she even been able to send word to the midwife? Or had she struggled through the pains and dangers of childbirth on her own? No one had ever told him. The villagers never spoke of Belle. Hordor never gave Rumplestiltskin more than crude, graphic speculations of her life with Jones. And her disgust with her husband. Rumplestiltskin knew nothing else of what her life had been during that year. Or how hard it had been for her.

He remembered the fear that had haunted him as his leg slowly mended. The seer had prophesied that, if he died, his son would grow up fatherless. So, he knew—he _knew_—his son would live.

He didn't know if Belle would.

Rumplestiltskin's mother was gone before he could remember her. There were women enough who died in childbirth or the complications after. Belle was so small and slight. As he'd lain in the healer's tent (they'd allowed him that much, a filthy pallet where the coward could lie untended in a corner, to live or die as the gods willed), it had hardly seemed possible her tiny frame could harbor another life and still live. He'd cursed himself time and again for his carelessness, getting her with child when he knew he would have to leave her, when he might die without ever seeing her again.

When he'd forced himself into his hobbling run when he'd finally reached home, when he'd thrown open the door and seen the emptiness inside, the fear that had risen up in him, the fear he wouldn't let himself name, was he had come too late and Belle was dead.

He'd never thought of her leaving.

_Women don't like to be married to cowards._

Maybe she'd been right. Maybe the scorn and viciousness she'd faced was already more than she could bear. Maybe—maybe she'd even been trying to protect their son. Rumplestiltskin remembered the casual cruelty that had been meted out to him, day by day. Had someone threatened her, _hurt _her, made her fear for Bae's safety if she stayed?

Years later, when he had his power, when Morraine was gone past even his ability to recall, Rumplestiltskin tracked down Jones. Disguised as a wealthy merchant with a load of goods to ship—and pretending to believe Jones' claim of being an honest business man—he'd invited him to dinner at an inn while they discussed the deal. Jones drank glass after glass of wine, then shot after shot of aged whisky. In return for the liquor, Jones poured out the sad, sad story of his life. He'd grown especially maudlin as he talked about the great beauty who'd left him.

"You never saw anything like her," Jones said. "Like one of the cathedral angels—" the town they were in was noted for the glorious diorama of angels on its cathedral ceiling, "—but down where you could get your hands on her, you know?" This had been followed by an earthy chuckle and a lengthy description of some of the things Jones did when he got his hands on her, and even lengthier descriptions of Belle's enjoyment of it.

Rumplestiltskin had made a promise not to kill Jones, not then, but it had been a near thing.

"She was insatiable," Jones had said at one point. "Sold herself in every port we went to. Always said I was the best lover she ever had, but it wasn't enough for her. Then, she went and sold herself to that lord. . . ."

There had been more, more than Rumplestiltskin ever wanted to know, but he made himself listen.

No, he might understand why Belle would turn to Jones, but he would never understand the rest of it.

Except—except—

He saw her with their son. He saw shades of the woman he remembered as they discussed books and faraway lands. Although, when he asked her about her own travels, Belle looked pale and turned her eyes away, saying only that she had never seen much more than the docks of any place Jones' ship had visited. Remembering Jones' story, he hadn't pressed her for a story he didn't want to hear.

It might have been true, that she hadn't seen much of those lands. She pressed him with questions about the places he had been, her eyes alight with curiosity. The observations she made, based on what he told her or what she found in books, were intelligent and often shrewd—but they never betrayed more knowledge than she claimed to have.

The same thing happened when she served tea to some of the people—well, some were people, some weren't, not really—who came to make deals with him. She was always the proper servant (Rumplestiltskin wondered how she learned that, though he supposed she'd had servants enough since he knew her). Belle never interrupted or asked questions beyond a murmured query of how they liked their tea or was the chair comfortable enough for them? Her eyes always properly downcast (disturbingly downcast, Rumplestiltskin thought. There were lands where commoners didn't even dare look at their betters, but Rumplestiltskin hadn't thought the Marchlands were among them).

But, afterwards, she would ask questions. She was never too inquisitive. When Rumplestiltskin let her know a certain subject was off-limits or just between himself and whoever had come to him for a deal, Belle let it drop (that sometimes disturbed him, too, knowing how curious she was. But, he could see how life in Maurice's court would teach her when it was safer to let a question go).

Of course, Rumplestiltskin only let her deal with his safer clients. Some she saw might still seem terrifying, depending on her views of tentacles or razor sharp teeth, but their business was innocent enough—or something they could make sound innocent while a servant was in the room. He didn't let anyone who might have tried to use Belle—or Bae—against him near her. When some of his visitors came to call, he told Belle to keep Bae in his rooms and not leave them till he told her (overcautious, he knew, with the protections he had on Bae and on the castle, especially on the wing where Bae and Belle were. That still didn't mean it wasn't a good idea).

She had become a puzzle, one he couldn't piece together.

That was part of the reason he made the decision he did. The other reason—the _main_ reason (so he told himself)—was Bae. A boy should have a chance to play with other children his age. Although Rumplestiltskin wasn't about to set up an orphanage in the Dark Castle (though the thought of the look on the Blue Fairy's face if she heard he had was almost enough to make it tempting), there were other ways to let Bae find some playfellows.

Rumplestiltskin waited till Belle brought him his tea to show her his preparations. She came in carrying a tray and a full set of cups—although he was alone, he had "forgotten" to tell her once or twice when he was having guests, just to see what she'd do (remain calm, that's what she did).

Once she was in, though, he couldn't resist grinning. "Look at these and tell me what you think."

Belle put the tray down on the table and cautiously came over to see (he had, perhaps, given her reason to be careful when he grinned like that). He saw her eyes widen as he held up the hooded travelling cloak. It was, he knew, a _magnificent _travelling cloak. It was and lined inside and trimmed along the edges with black lelaundel fur (only in the warm lowlands did people practice the perversion of wearing the fur on the _outside _of the coat instead of on the inside where it could do some good). The outer cloth was black silk embroidered elaborately with more black silk and decorated with jet. It was a cloak befitting an empress.

"You're going somewhere?" Belle asked.

Oh, _please. _ Could she not see this was a _woman's _cloak? "No, _you're_ going somewhere, dearie. The cloak is for you."

Belle paled (_really,_ she did that _so often. What_ was her problem?). "You can't—you promised—we had a deal—you can't send me away—!"

"Then, it's a good thing I keep my deals, isn't it?" he snapped. Doing Belle a good turn was like drawing teeth. From a hippopotamus. With tweezers. As he knew from experience. "It's almost All Souls." All Souls, the festival of the dead. It was a time to remember, mourn, and to celebrate the lives that were lost. "I thought you and Baelfire and I might go to a village near here. Your story will be that you're a rich widow on a journey stopping to observe the holiday." Keeping All Souls was important here in the mountains just as it was in the Borderlands. A traveler would be expected to stop and observe it—and the village in question would give a warm welcome to the stranger who stopped to keep it, even if she weren't clearly a very wealthy widow (which she would be) who would scatter a few gold coins before she left. "They keep a tolerable inn. Bae can have some time to play with children and stuff himself with soul cakes. And you can light a candle or two for the dead, if you've a mind. Here, look. . . ." He pulled out her black velvet dress, now repaired and good as new. He brought out another done more in the style of the Frontlands—or what had been the style for rich women in mourning three centuries ago (the village, which saw a fair share of those who came to make deals with Rumplestiltskin, would be unlikely to notice exactly how unusual that dress was). There were boots, gloves (he hadn't even bothered trying to clean the pair she'd oozed and bled in), and everything else she might need.

Belle ran her hands through the soft fur of the cloak (Rumplestiltskin remembered her running hands through wool in the merchants' stalls, assessing its quality before buying any for him to spin). But, her eyes were worried. "A woman traveling alone, especially one who seems rich, is easy prey. Are you sure Bae will be safe?"

"Oh, perfectly. First, it's a very civilized, little village. Second, harming a traveler on All Souls? They wouldn't dream of it. Third, a good share of my guests pass through there. The villagers know not to cause strangers trouble. Some of them are stranger than they seem. Fourth, you will have me there as your manservant." He bowed as theatrically as he knew how. "I'll handle any trouble."

"A manservant. With scales and fangs. Is that common here?"

"I'll be in disguise, of course."

"Of course."

"Don't doubt me, dearie. You'll see. You'll have a wonderful time."

X

The Dark One couldn't resist showing off, Belle saw. From the moment their coach came speeding up to the inn doors, then came to a sudden halt that would have been impressive if the coachman was handling one horse, not four. Not that she was sure the black, shadowy steeds were horses. She'd never seen signs of any animals besides messenger birds at the castle.

The Dark One had turned himself into a man of average height, average years, and very average appearance—except for his eyes. Those were still his yellow-streaked, lizard eyes. The innkeeper had been startled when he saw those but recovered quickly. Belle wondered if he knew who his guest was, but the man showed no sign of fear or panic as he ushered them into a private parlor where a hot meal was already laid out for them.

The festival was barely beginning when they finished. Belle and the Dark One both agreed Baelfire could go out and play with the village children, who were gathering on the village green along with everyone else. In the Frontlands, children would go from house to house, singing cheerful prayer-songs for the dead and receiving soul cakes in return. Here, the Dark One told her, the children still sang, but the cakes were given out on the green before the dancing began. They had brought a large hamper full of them. The Dark One, playing manservant, carried them for her and set them out on one of the tables.

Musicians had already set up and were tuning their instruments while couples gathered. Belle had left her cloak back at the inn, only putting her black shawl over her shoulders. The village didn't seem that much farther down the mountains, but the weather was much milder. For a small village, they had collected a good assortment of entertainers. Belle saw a fire-eater and several jugglers, a dancing bear, and a dozen other entertainers.

The bear worried her. "Should we let Bae wander around alone?" Belle asked. She felt a familiar rush of fear. After so long at the castle, this village—so similar to the one she'd lived in—had been like a dream. She'd forgotten the dangers a place like this could have.

"He's watching the puppet show," the Dark One said, pointing. The puppet show was several yards away. It took Belle a few moments of searching to spot Bae. He was standing with a group of children, laughing at the antics of foolish dragon and a cowardly knight.

"How can you see him?"

The Dark One wiggled his fingers. "Magic, dearie. Don't worry. He hasn't been out of my sight. And he won't be."

They wandered past other booths. The Dark One paused to watch a magician, the unmagical sort with scarves up his sleeves and a good supply of sparkly dust to throw in the air. When the man was done, he threw him a gold coin to Belle's surprise.

When he finished, the Dark One tossed him a gold coin, to Belle's surprise.

"He did a good job," the Dark One said. "Creating magic without magic is harder than most people realize. Besides—" with a flourish, he pulled out a gold coin, made it vanish in his hand, and pulled it out from behind Belle's ear. "—I admire a fellow practitioner." He tossed the coin to Belle, giving her one of his dramatic bows.

Just then, the musicians started up another tune. Belle turned, surprised. It was a dance tune from home. She hadn't heard it once since leaving the Frontlands.

"How do they know that song?" she asked. "I haven't heard it in years—centuries. How did they learn it?"

"Is it from the Frontlands?" the Dark One asked curiously. When Belle nodded, he said, "There were refugees from the war who spread to many lands. I suppose one or two of them wound up here—or taught songs to someone from here." He looked at her uncertainly. "You're in mourning, but All Souls is a time to honor the dead. No one would think anything of it if you joined the dancing." He nodded towards some of the others lining up. Belle wasn't the only one in black. "No one would think anything of it if you didn't," he added quickly. "But, it _is_ Frontlands music. I'm sure I could find you a partner."

"I don't know." Belle looked around at the crowd of strangers, suddenly remembering another crowd standing silently as Hordor meted out his justice. "Would you dance with me?" she blurted out, then reddened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No," he said. He gave her a smile. It was very small, but it seemed kind. He offered her his hand. "I don't dance often but I think I remember the steps. If you would dance with me?"

Belle felt a flutter of trepidation, wondering if she was getting into more than she realized. _Don't be silly, _she told herself. _You asked him. And he offered to get you a different partner. _Sliding her shawl off and putting it by a tree, she took his hand and let him lead her out onto the green.

Several of the tunes that followed were from the Frontlands, the dance steps only a little altered over the years. Others weren't too different from ones Belle knew. She was able to follow along without too many missteps. Some of the dances involved trading off from one partner to another. Belle started with the Dark One and came back to him at the end. But, the steps between were unnerving, as she went from stranger to stranger. She was glad to find herself safe beside him again.

They ended with the Ghost Dance.

Candles were brought out. Most of the dancers had brought theirs, though a few scrambled to booths to get one before the dance began. The Dark One handed her one she was sure he hadn't had earlier. Bae, looking very solemn and tired but (amazingly) not ready for an exhausted tantrum, appeared beside her. The Dark One handed him a candle as well. The candles were lit and the people holding them began to dance.

In the Frontlands, they said you danced the Ghost Dance together or you danced it alone. The candles were the only partners. People held the lights as if the they were holding an invisible companion's hand. Some people, who had danced every dance, now stood on the side and watched. But, all the people in mourning, those who had joined in the earlier dances and those who hadn't, took their places on the green.

The steps were slow and thoughtful, easy enough for Bae to follow along. In this village, the singers were silent and no one spoke as the music played, but Belle remembered the words sung to it long ago in a village that might or might not still exist.

_Somewhere in a hidden memory  
Images float before my eyes  
Of fragrant nights of straw and of bonfires  
And dancing till the next sunrise._

They didn't dance till sunrise. It wasn't even midnight, Belle thought. Most of the people here were farmers. Harvest was just past but, even with today being a festival day, they would have gotten up before dawn to feed the animals, milk the cows, and tend to all the other work that couldn't be put aside till All Souls was over.

Belle went through the steps, thinking of her dead as she looked at the light in her hand, seeing soft brown eyes in a familiar face.

_I miss you,_ she thought.

When the music ended, the dancers blew out their candles. It was traditional to silently think a prayer at that moment as they stood in the dark. Belle doubted she was the only one who found herself pleading for the impossible.

_Rumplestiltskin, please, come back to me. I need you._

There were hands on her shoulders. "Here," the Dark One said, putting her shawl around her. "It's getting cold. We should be going in." Belle murmured thanks.

Bae chose that moment to turn into a cranky six year old up hours past his bedtime. "I don't want to go in," he declared. "It's too early!"

"Time for bed, young master," the Dark One said. "Everyone else is going."

"Don't WANNA!" Bae yelled.

The Dark One hoisted him up like a sack of grain over his shoulder. "Noooooo!" Bae howled. "Not tired! Don't wanna!"

Belle sighed. Bae could be a perfect angel most of the day. But, keep him up late (or let him miss meals—she'd been in terror of what Jones might do to the child sometimes when Bae had been forced to go hungry), and a little demon appeared. He wasn't the only child his age to be throwing a tantrum—some were even older—but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. "Bae, what would your father say if he could see you?"

"Papa's not here! Papa's dead!"

"It's All Souls Eve. He's probably watching you right now."

"And listening," the Dark One said. "I can guarantee he's hearing every word you say."

Belle shot him a look. You didn't mock ghosts, especially tonight of all nights. He gave her look of exaggerated innocence. _What was wrong with what I said?_

As an argument, it seemed to work with Bae. He suddenly stopped howling and looked around. "Where?"

"Hard to say," the Dark One said. "But, much closer than you think, that's certain."

Bae peered into the darkness. "Papa," he said. "Thank you for sending Lord Gaston away. And Captain Jones. I hope his ship sank. Amen."

Belle reddened, not that anyone could see it in the night. "Bae—"

"No, no," the Dark One said. "As a prayer to the ancestors goes, what it lacks in form, it more than makes up for in sincerity." He gave Belle a sidelong look and, hard as it was to tell in the dim light, what looked like a sly smile. "Or do you disapprove of the sentiment?"

Belle looked away. "Whether I approve or not, asking the dead to call down curses is—is impious."

"You may be right," the Dark One admitted. "Fortunately, people can call down me, instead. It would be impious for people to treat me with piety, don't you think? So, there's no problem. Although, I think—" his voice turned odd, almost shy. "—I think your husband is watching out for you. More than you know." Belle wondered at the change in his voice but, before she could ask any questions, Bae gave a loud snore. Followed by another.

The Dark One's eyes went wide in the moonlight. "Is he always this loud? How do you sleep in the same room?"

"It's the way you're holding him," Belle said. A shoulder in Bae's stomach and his head lying lower than his chest. Of course, he was snoring. "Here, let me take him."

The Dark One handed Bae over. Belle held him in her arms, letting his head rest against her shoulder. The snoring didn't stop but quieted considerably. She paused and tried to wrap her shawl around Bae, but it was hard to do that and hold him at the same time.

"Let me," the Dark One said. Belle stood still as he adjusted the shawl so it covered both of them. "How's that?"

"It's good, thank you—and, thank you. For taking us here. And—and for dancing with me."

"It was my pleasure." The smile he gave her this time had no edge of mocking or irony. Belle felt a cold shiver, but his next words reassured her. "I mean to be a good foster father to Bae," he went on. "I know my reasons for taking him see strange, but I mean to do right by him."

He had also been among the people holding a candle this night. "The deal you made to protect someone. That was Morraine?"

He was silent. She didn't know if he was angry, or surprised she'd asked, or just searching for the right answer. The silence stretched on, and Belle found herself clutching Bae protectively, not sure what the Dark One would do. ". . . .Yes," he said finally. There was a ragged edge to his voice. "I promised to protect her and her mother. To keep them safe." He looked at Bae and gently touched his tousled curls. "I swear to you, I won't fail again."

They reached the inn. The innkeeper was there. Belle wondered if he'd been to the festival or if he spent the whole night here, waiting for guests to return. Or maybe he had some magic or his own. Maybe, like the Dark One taking them to his castle in an instant, the innkeeper magically appeared at his door every time there were guests, no matter where he'd been. That could be inconvenient if he'd been in the privy. . . . Belle decided Bae wasn't the only one who was tired. She smiled at the ommkeeper as he assured them there were fresh sheets on the beds, good fires built up in the hearths, and hot bricks tucked under the blankets to keep them warm.

They went up to their rooms. The one she and Bae shared had two beds in it. The Dark One had his own chamber but he helped her put Bae to Bed, pulling down the blankets as she lowered Bae in before finding his nightclothes. He was worn out, Belle thought. Little boys and puppies, they could be all energy one minute and completely collapse the next. He didn't come close to waking even once as they got him undressed and into his nightshirt.

"Are you using a spell on him?" Belle whispered.

"No." He looked at her innocently. "Are you?"

Belle laughed, then covered her mouth, smothering it. Just because Bae slept like a log was no reason to push her luck. "If mothers knew a spell for that, all of us would be using it."

"Hmm, and with dire consequences for the world as we know it, no doubt," the Dark One said, grinning as he tucked the blankets in around Bae. He put away Bae's shoes while Belle folded his clothes. As she put them away in Bae's trunk—the Dark One thought they looked more convincing as travelers with trunks instead of just a small satchel for one change of clothes—he reached over to hang Bae's travel cloak on the peg near it. Then, his hand closed over hers.

Belle felt a surge of fear. _No, _she told herself. _That's not what he means by it. _It was just their hands meeting by chance. Or a friendly gesture. Or—

But, his hand was still holding hers before he gently turned her towards him. Gaston was rarely gentle—not harsh or cruel, but not _gentle_—but Jones sometimes was. When he began. Never by the time he ended.

_He's not like that. He doesn't look at me that way. He _**can't**_—_For a moment, looking in his eyes, she thought she was wrong, there was nothing to be afraid of. He looked at her so kindly.

Then, his other hand brushed against her cheek. The hand that had held hers released it, slipping around her waist and drawing her closer to him. "Madam—" he whispered, his voice husky. "_Belle. _I. . . ." The hand that had brushed her cheek touched her lips. He leaned in, about to kiss her.

She shoved him away, stepping back from him. Her legs bumped against the bed behind her. There was no place else to go. She'd seen how strong he was, and she was small and weak. The Dark One didn't need magic to beat men like Gaston and Jones. He could just break them with his bare hands. There was nothing she could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to her.

The Dark One's face went from surprised to irritated. "Does this form not please you, my lady?" he said, the mocking edge back in his voice. He changed, and Gaston stood in front of her in all his court finery. "Is this better?"

Belle pressed back against the bed, shaking her head, horrified.

"No? What about this? Do you prefer _this?_" And he turned into Jones.

Belle's knees were shaking. She collapsed onto the bed, unable to stand, even though that was the last place she wanted to be. She turned away, unable to look at _that_ face, closing her eyes to block it out. It didn't help. He would take her—he would force her—with Bae only a few feet away from them. She felt herself shaking.

_Don't cry, _she told herself. _Don't wake Bae. Don't let him see—_Crying had excited Jones and made him crueler. But, there were times she had been too numb and hurt to cry any more or do more than lie there dumbly as he hurt her. Those times had made him furious.

But, she couldn't wake Bae. She couldn't let him see this. She _couldn't._

She heard the Dark One make a sound of disgust. "It's no matter, Madam. You've made your feelings perfectly clear. I bid you goodnight." Then, she heard the door close.

Belle looked up and realized the Dark one had left. She was alone in the room.

Belle didn't undress or get into bed, she didn't dare. But, she gathered up one of the blankets and shoved it against her mouth to muffle the sound as she sobbed.

X

**Note: **Er, I feel the need to put in a defense of both Rumple and Belle, here. Belle is seeing what's happening through her past trauma. She's aware of how vulnerable she is and she expects the worst to happen when a man makes any kind of advances towards her—because that's pretty much what has happened since Jones got ahold of her.

Rumple is being thicker than usual, but he has three hundred years of believing a lot of lies he was told back when he didn't have three centuries experience at reading people. To him, Jones and Gaston are the men Belle preferred to him. He didn't know he was ripping open every emotional wound Belle has—including some that had finally begun to heal because she was beginning to let herself trust him and feel safe around him. All he got was that Belle was rejecting him. Again.

**Note on the Music: **Forgot to mention this sooner (oops, sorry). The lines from The Ghost Dance song Belle remembers are from Loreena McKennitt's All Soul's Night. While I love McKennitt's music, the rest of the words to The Ghost Dance are different as is the music. These lyrics were just too perfect. While I'm not sure what The Ghost Dance sounded like, if you've every heard a crystal harmonica play, I'm sure that's part of it.


	8. Back to the Start

**Note: **Ursula gets mentioned in this. She sounds better than the Ursula in Little Mermaid, but I can't imagine her as being a goddess. Besides, a goddess wouldn't make a deal with Rumplestiltskin.

X

Rumplestiltskin was in a foul mood when they returned to the castle. The only satisfaction he had was that Belle looked like she'd spent a sleepless night as well, pale with dark circles under her eyes. But, she didn't want to talk to him anymore than he wanted to talk to her. Fortunately, Bae was tired and cranky—refusing to get up, refusing to get dressed, to eat, or get in the carriage, in that order. He left Belle to deal with the boy while he went and saw the horses (not that they were really horses) brought out and harnessed up.

Rumplestiltskin was tempted to transport them all back to the castle before they drove away from the inn, but he kept a rein on his temper. He'd had some vague thoughts on how to bring Bae back to the village, to eventually set things up so that the villagers would believe he lived only a short distance away (which he did, Rumplestiltskin just didn't want them knowing which Dark Castle Bae called home) and might accept seeing him every few days (with a snake-eyed servant quietly watching over him).

That plan, rough as it was, depended on Belle. She would have to play the role of rich widow living in seclusion, discouraging visitors without arousing suspicions—and, Rumplestiltskin supposed, receiving enough visitors to make them believe there was some place to visit. He could have created the illusion of a grand house somewhere nearby, somewhere with a very difficult road frequently cutoff by bad weather. He'd still been working out the details. Obviously, Bae couldn't be allowed out of the castle's protection without his father close by.

It still would have meant trusting Belle, relying on her to play her part to the villagers, to show him some trust in return as they guarded Bae. And, of course, to know Belle wouldn't do something stupid as soon as she was out of the castle like grab Bae and run—whether to the Marchlands or the nearest sea port, Rumplestiltskin didn't know or care. He wouldn't let either happen.

Belle had likely ruined that plan, but the Dark One never gave up without a fight. So, he waited till they were out of sight of the village before snapping his fingers and bringing them the rest of the way. His castle wasn't that far from the village, but it was much higher up in the mountains, where storms hit hard and suddenly. The village had only been a little overcast with a bit of a chill in the air. Here, it was snowing in earnest. Rumplestiltskin, from the feel of the wind, expected this would turn into a fierce blizzard soon enough.

He helped Bae out of the carriage. Belle shrank back, repulsed, when he tried to offer her a hand, so he turned his back on her. Bae, his eyes lit up with delight as he watched the falling snow, morning peevishness forgotten, didn't notice.

"Haven't you seen snow before?" Rumplestiltskin asked, amused.

"We had some last winter," Bae said. "We built snowmen and threw snowballs. It lasted a _week._"

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "It will last here for much longer. And this will turn into a blizzard soon enough. Don't try to go out. Not that the castle doors won't let you go anywhere dangerous, and this storm will turn _very_ dangerous."

"Aww. . . ."

"We can build a snowman after it's stopped," Rumplestiltskin said.

Snowmen. He could remember building those. Usually, when he thought back on the days when he could still feel cold, he remembered fierce winters and the ache in his stomach as food ran low. The one blessing of the cold winters in the Frontlands was that they had stopped the Ogres. Once the snow closed the passes in the hills, they were sealed off and safe till the spring thaw (safe from the Ogres. Hunger and cold waged their own wars). It was one of the reasons why the Marchlands, even though they were farther from the Ogres' territory than the Frontlands, had fallen faster. There'd been nothing to stop them once they'd broken through. But, Morraine had also enjoyed building snowmen and making snow fairies in the newly fallen snow. Odd, how long it had been since he'd thought of that.

Belle got out of the carriage on her own. She was careful to stand on the other side of Bae as they walked back into the castle. Bae, still over his morning crankiness (Rumple knew what small children were like the day after a festival, and didn't doubt Belle would have her hands full soon enough), was giving an excited recitation of everything he'd done yesterday. He showed Rumplestiltskin the small treasures he'd acquired at some of the booths with the pennies Rumplestiltskin had given him to spend.

"I almost forgot!" Bae said. He pulled out a wooden hair comb. A pattern of flowers had burned into the end in a design that looked like Frontlands work (centuries of Rumplestiltskin in the neighborhood had quietly influenced the town). He handed it to Belle. "It's like the one Papa gave you, isn't it?"

Rumplestiltskin stopped mid-stride.

He knew the comb Bae was talking about. Rumplestiltskin had met Belle at the fair in Longbourne. He'd already sold all his cloth at a good profit and had been looking through the booths and stalls with coins to spend. A friend had told him about a limner's apprentice, Milah, who was supposed to be good at sketching faces. They had decided to meet up with some others to see her work, though Rumplestiltskin didn't think he'd be talked into paying her to make a sketch of him. It wasn't as if he was a handsome man.

Instead, he'd bumped into Belle—quite literally. She'd had to jump out of the way of a gang of small boys, two or three years older than Bae was now, running to see the puppet show that was just starting. She'd been jostled against a booth and the wheel of a wagon before pulling free and falling, more or less, into Rumplestiltskin's arms. Curses were thrown after the boys by other market-goers, and the children found themselves rounded up with demands to know who their parents were.

Rumplestiltskin had ignored the ruckus, his gaze caught by the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Then, he'd noticed the tear in Belle's skirt, a weaver and spinner by trade, he had a needle and thread in his satchel. He'd offered to help mend it. They'd been near the dancing square on the green. Somehow, he never did meet up with his friends that evening.

Belle's braid had come loose during the dancing. Embarrassed, she'd left the dancing square to try and fix it. Rumplestiltskin had spotted the woodcarver's booth nearby. His eyes lit on the comb. It was lying to the side, small and neglected. The flowers were carved at the end of it and painted blue, the same shade as Belle's eyes. Impulsively, he found himself buying it and offering it to Belle.

It was forward of him. They'd barely met, after all, and the Frontlands had strict rules on propriety (or they had before the chaos of the war swept them away). He'd flushed and become tongue-tied as he realized what he was doing. But, Belle had smiled (in his memory—if he could trust any of his memories of Belle at all—that smile had reached her eyes and warmed them). Perhaps, it would be all right, if her mother said so. She had led him over to the wagon where Elise was talking to a man Rumplestiltskin had taken for Belle's father—or grandfather (he wasn't. Belle called him Uncle Claude, but he was actually some kind of servant to Elise. Later, when Rumplestiltskin learned all of Elise's story, he found Claude was a man-at-arms who had served Elise's family and helped her when she ran away from Maurice's court). Elise had studied the comb as intently as if she expected to find poison hidden in it. Giving Rumplestiltskin a look that made him feel like he was one of the boys who had caused all the ruckus running for the puppet show, she informed Belle in arctic tones that she could keep the comb—if they made a fair trade. Would Goodman Rumplestiltskin care to join them for dinner in return for this gift?

Rumplestiltskin decided he had gone from troublemaking boy to grubby dog, the kind that found mouldering meat and dragged it into the house to eat. But, he had also been invited to eat with Belle's family. He smiled and accepted.

When he returned from the war, the comb had been lying on the floor near their bed, tossed aside. In the dark cottage, Rumplestiltskin hadn't seen it till was going to bed himself that night. He had stepped on it by accident, the teeth of the comb biting into the heel of the foot of his bad leg, before breaking under his weight. Rumplestiltskin, picking up the shattered pieces and remembering what Hordor had told him, imagined how the gift he'd given his wife had come to thrown away so carelessly, lying in the shadow of their bed.

He still had the pieces of it, kept in a box in the same room where he had Morraine's doll and other treasures.

There was pain in Belle's eyes as she took the comb from Bae and smiled. "You're right, Bae. It's just like it."

Bae looked very pleased with himself and continued talking about the festival.

Rumplestiltskin watched them, trying to understand what had just happened. She'd told Bae about the comb? Told Bae how _he_ had given it to her, not some pirate or lord?

And Bae knew this story well enough that he bought his mother a comb—was _proud_ of himself for buying her a comb—that reminded her of the one that she'd tossed aside with the rest of their marriage.

They had reached Bae's rooms. "Stay with the boy," he said roughly. "I have a great deal to do today. There will be a visitor later today," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He'll arrive in the midafternoon. Be there to greet him in the entryway and lead him to the great hall. And don't forget to fetch us some tea. He'll doubtless be cold on a day like today. Take your meals here or in the kitchen, but don't interrupt us." He was in no mood to share meals with them today—and it was time he started thinking of Belle as a servant again. And treating her as one. He needed to keep a safe, formal distance between them. So, she'd told Bae some fairy tale about the comb. It meant nothing. Trying to tell himself it did would just lead him into another snare, like the one he'd stepped into yesterday.

Stepped into? No, he'd _charged _into that, like a blind bull bit by a swarm of hornets.

Why? He wondered, stalking back to the great hall. What was he that, no matter what form he took, no matter what century he met her in, Belle turned from him in disgust?

He was ugly. He knew he was ugly. He had cast spells to make sure he was ugly—uglier even than he'd been before the curse. Disguising himself as a man for All Souls, he had chosen a bland face, not a handsome one. Why create a lie so obviously false?

But, Belle had enjoyed his company. More than that, he would have sworn she'd felt _safe_ with him—in a way she hadn't around the many strangers at the festival. He closed his eyes, remembering their walk back to the inn, Bae falling asleep in his arms and Belle taking the little boy from him, getting his snoring to stop.

For a moment, it had been as if all the bitter centuries between them had vanished, as if they were the simple husband and wife they might have been if the Ogre Wars and his cowardice had never happened, walking home to their cottage after spending All Souls among friends and neighbors, dancing on the green. Belle had laughed at a joke he'd made. Together, they'd tucked their son into bed. As she leaned forward, he caught the scent of her hair, all autumn leaves and wood smoke from her day outside.

He'd imagined moments like this as he lay in the healers tent, determined to live, telling himself he would get home and find Belle—find her _alive—_alive and well and with their son. For a moment, all the anger, all the pain, had fallen away. He wasn't the Dark One, anymore. He was nothing but a simple spinner standing by the woman he loved, the woman whose smiles and kind touch he had ached for when he told himself he had to live.

Rumplestiltskin had taken her hand and looked in her eyes. He'd seen her look up at him, startled, uncertain, as if seeing him for the first time. His fingers brushed her face, the way they used to. The words were already bubbling up in his mouth, _Belle, it's me. _

His wits deserted him whenever he was with her, he thought bitterly. The Dark One, master of deceit and guile. More like the blathering master of drooling and idiocy. The only reason he had stopped in time was because Belle had had enough of him.

He saw the change in her eyes, saw the _disgust_ as she pushed him away.

She despised him. She _always _despised him, whether it was this century or another. Belle couldn't even muster up a false smile, like the ones he'd seen her give Gaston, the ones that never reached her eyes. He wasn't even worth the trouble of lying to. Furious with her, with himself, he took her old lover's form.

She was shocked. Of course, she was shocked. People were _always_ shocked the first time they realized how forms could lie. Anyone but a fool would have realized that and given her time to recover.

Instead, seeing her recoil, he'd become even angrier, taking the form of the man she'd left him for.

She _had_ recovered, Rumplestiltskin thought. Shock gave way to revulsion. He might as well have been an Ogre, complete with bits of corpse stuck between his teeth. She knew it was just a lying trick. He'd seen how she'd been sickened at the sight of him.

He sat at his wheel, spinning and trying to order his thoughts, to calm them, trying not to ask why Belle loathed him—even when she didn't know it was him.

And he tried not to think about the comb Bae had given her or why, despite the pain he saw, her smile had reached her eyes when she had taken it.

X

Bae was cranky. Yesterday had been too exciting and he had stayed up too late, then been up too early. Belle finally got him to lie down after lunch—_not _to take a nap. Bae had informed her (quite peevishly) that he was _too big _for naps. However, after much persuasion, Belle convinced him to lie down while she read him a story. Despite his insistence that it wasn't a nap, Bae made sure to have his small blanket. He also held onto a small top he had bought at the festival. It was a cleverly made top, rounded instead of pointed. If spun just right, it flipped over as it spun and twirled on the little knob. At least for today, he seemed to think it was more wonderful than any of the toys the Dark One had given him.

Belle rubbed her head. There had been times Jones had given her gifts, and it was always important she be suitably grateful. She remembered the time he'd been angry because she'd been "too grateful" to the cabin boy who'd bought needles and thread for her when he was in port—more grateful, he'd decided, than she was for the new dress he'd given her. Gaston could be a little like that, too, easily put out if she didn't make a fuss over his presents. Though, he'd never turned cruel, and she could usually cheer him out of it.

Was the Dark One like that? Would he be angry when he found Bae making such a fuss over such a tiny, inexpensive toy? Would he sulk, the way Gaston had—or turn violent, like Jones? Not that he ever called it violence. . . .

_If you're too good for the officers, you can bed down with the crew._

_To survive at sea, a ship needs discipline. It's the captain who makes exceptions is the cruel man, sacrificing the good of the ship, not the one who keeps the rules. . . ._

Lord Maurice had agreed. Gaston had nodded wisely.

The Dark One might not call it violence either when he punished Bae.

Or when he punished her.

Belle's stomach should be in knots, but she only felt numb, emptied. She tried to act as if everything were normal in front of Bae. He noticed something was wrong but seemed to believe her when she told him she was only a little tired. It was true. She hadn't slept at all last night except, near morning, when she'd nodded off for a few minutes only to wake up, heart pounding from nightmares.

Nightmares. Memories.

She'd turned down Hordor, and he'd had her whipped and sold to the highest bidder. She'd tried to turn down Jones, and he'd nodded calmly and thrown her into the arms of the crew.

To think, she'd tried to fight Smee when he took Bae from her. She'd still been weak and feverish from her whipping, but two men had had to hold her while Smee forced her son out of her arms. He'd been apologizing all the while, telling her she'd thank him later.

He'd known.

When she first saw him, he'd been bringing a small nanny goat onboard. It was just as Hordor's men were bringing her to the ship. She remembered Smee leading it up the gangway as Jones signed off on some papers, accepting delivery. Smee had known how things would go, what Jones would do. But, Smee made sure there would be milk for Bae while she was learning her first lesson about obeying Jones' commands. She owed him for that.

Once she'd learned it, Jones, reminding her he was a gentleman, had made the crew troop by her, dropping the coins in front of her he said they should have paid.

She'd sat there, unable to feel or understand. It was like staring at writing in a dream. She could see it, know it had meaning, know she should _understand that _meaning—but unable to grasp it.

Except for a part of her. Belle could feel it in the back of her mind, already understanding and screaming inside her, wanting to run, to escape, to jump over the side of the ship and drown, wanting to seize a weapon and kill them all—or let them kill her.

It must have shown in her eyes. Or maybe it was only that Smee had seen it all before. She remembered when the crew was done, staring at the coins, something building up in her. She was ready to throw them all into the sea and maybe go in after. He came up last, holding Bae.

He was the only crewman who hadn't taken advantage of what the captain offered. Belle never knew if it was compassion or pragmatism. "Keep it," he said, nodding at the coins as he put Bae into her arms. "You think the captain will buy the things your son needs? You'll need it."

Smee made the purchases for her when they were in port, since Jones almost never let her off the ship—and never without crewmen watching over her. When she ran out of coins, he found other ways for her to pay him back. She was able to read Jones letters and the orders he received, passing on secrets to Smee. He might have been a spy. Or he might have been a very practical man who knew how to take advantage of anything that came his way. She never knew which and found it very hard to care.

Bae fell asleep as she read to him.

There was a knock at the door. Belle opened it and found the Dark One. She'd thought she was numb, but she shrank back, wondering if this was where her punishment would begin. But, he only looked her over disparagingly. "Make yourself presentable," he told her. "My guest will be here soon. I'd like him to get the wrong impression of you."

Belle ignored the jibe, nodding. "Of course, my lord. Is there anything else? Anything I should know about your guest?"

The Dark One shrugged. "He's nothing important, the sheriff of a town called Nottingham. But, he has information I want."

Belle blinked. Nottingham was a major center of trade. The town probably saw more money in a season than all the Marchlands in a year. Its sheriff had more power than some lords.

Or he had three hundred years ago. Perhaps that had changed as well.

Three hundred years. . . .

"How did you know?" she blurted out.

The Dark One turned and fixed a harsh stare on her. "Know what?"

"Jones. You—you knew what he looked like. How? Or was it just a trick?" Could he take the image out of her mind? Or make her see something only she remembered?

He grinned, making a point of showing his fangs. "Oh, no trick, dearie. I'm much older than I seem, didn't you know?

"You may remember an amulet your captain had? I expect he never took it off."

Belle shivered, memories of metal digging into her skin. She nodded.

The Dark One said, "It was made with the voice and heart of a certain mermaid—"

"The what?" She had to have heard that wrong. The Dark One looked at her witheringly. Belle looked down, as became a proper servant. "I'm sorry, my lord. I just don't understand."

"Oh, don't you, dearie? It's not that complicated. With magic, I could take out any part of you I pleased. I could hold your heart in my hand and let you scream every time I gave it a squeeze. I could take those pretty eyes of yours and dangle them on a chain. Your captain convinced a little mermaid to hand her heart and voice over to him—incredibly stupid of her, but I understand he could be quite charming when he put his mind to it. I expect you would know more about that than I would."

"Yes," Belle whispered. "He could be charming. When he tried." He was charming when he spoke in Maurice's court, apologizing for his treatment of Belle (but, really, how was he to know? It was an innocent mistake). He'd been charming when a judge in one port town had asked pointed questions about a dueling death (the man he'd killed was over sixty years old and had tried to take back his granddaughter when some of the crewmen lured her aboard. Jones had killed him before he picked up the sword the captain threw at his feet. But, the judge agreed, it was an honorable duel. And the girl had only gotten what she'd asked for. Even if she was only fifteen).

The Dark One went on with his tale. "The Sea Witch, Ursula, took exception. I think the mermaid in question was her niece or some such. Unfortunately, the amulet Jones made once he was done with the girl protected him from most perils of the sea, including the Sea Witch. So, she approached me. She didn't know his name or the name of his ship. It seemed everything he told his mermaid victim was a lie. They had a nickname for him: Hook. Because he was like a baited hook, offering sweet things before dragging his prey out of the sea.

"But, Ursula was able to set me on the trail of a man who had once served under Jones, Smee. Smee was . . . remarkably reasonable once he knew what he was dealing with." Smee. Yes. He would be. She'd heard he'd left Jones' ship after she was gone. Jones had been quite angry to lose her, no matter what he'd told Maurice—and Smee was the one who'd delivered the ring and her message begging for help. "From there, it was a simple matter to track down the soldier turned pirate.

"I got his amulet from him, replacing it with one that was . . . less effective, shall we say. He never noticed. Till the mermaids sank his boat. The sailors, I believe, were eaten by sharks—the mermaids brought several with them—but Jones they took alive. And kept alive for much longer than I would have expected, all things considered. But, I won't trouble you with the gruesome details. I believe you said revenge was _impious._"

"He's—he's dead?" Belle said. She felt as if she was back on Jones ship, coins being given to her. She didn't understand what was happening or what it meant.

"Oh, quite dead. And probably wanted to be long before it actually happened, poor lad."

He was saying this to wound her, she realized. He thought—he must think she'd loved Jones. Or cared for him. Enough that hearing how he'd abused the sea girl and how her people had taken their revenge, all this should shock her, _hurt_ her. But, she couldn't even pretend. "He's _dead?_ He—all of them—they're all _dead?_"

There was a gloating look in his eyes. "I believe that's what I said, dearie. Now, if there's nothing else? I have work to do."

"I—no—thank you—I—thank you. For telling me. I'll—I'll get things ready. For your guest."

Belle went to the kitchen, putting together a plate of scones and fruit tarts. She filled a kettle up with water, ready to heat once the sheriff was here.

He was dead. Gruesomely dead. _Horribly _dead.

Belle had been horrified at the joy she felt when she knew Jones had been publically humiliated, that he had turned pirate and renegade. This was worse. Better. Both.

He was dead and never coming back. He was gone. Forever.

Belle hoped the mermaids had fed him to sharks by inches. She hoped he had screamed every day—every moment before he died.

No—no—she wasn't like this. She wasn't like Jones, to take so much happiness in another person's suffering.

Except she did. She felt something bubbling up inside of her as she imagined Jones' terrible end and the deaths of all his crew—falling into the sea, terrified, drowning, being eaten alive. Like that poor girl, just fifteen, when the crewmen were done with her and she learned what had happened to her grandfather. She'd thrown herself into the waves. And Belle had envied her, aching to do the same.

Instead, she'd held Bae tight against her, reminding herself why she couldn't follow.

The bubbling reached her mouth. It felt like laughter but sounded more like a sob as it broke out of her. Tears were running down her face.

_He's dead, _she told herself again. _Dead. No matter what the Dark One does to me, I never have to be afraid of Jones again._

When the sobs subsided, she went and washed her face with cold water to erase the signs of crying. The Dark One had told her to be presentable when met his guest. Belle knew better than to disobey. The water was ice cold. She could hear the storm raging outside, the blizzard the Dark One had predicted. There. So long as the sheriff didn't freeze to death on his way here or get blown off the mountain, she was ready to meet him.

Belle smoothed her hair and tidied her dress. Then, she went to the entry room to await the Dark One's guest.

She didn't see the Dark One, his face troubled as he stepped out of the shadows where he had watched her as she wept over the captain's death.


	9. Cold Wind

**Note: **I was going to make the sheriff Keith from the episode Lacey, but he was too comic for this scene. I haven't seen much of the BBC's Robin Hood, but I am picturing Richard Armitage as Keith's replacement. The sheriff in that series was played by Keith Allen, so Keith's Enchanted Forest name is Allen in this story.

X

Rumple took out his crystal sphere and watched to see how Belle handled things in the entryway. At the appointed time, mauve smoke began to billow up by the door. So, the sheriff had used the charm Rumplestiltskin had sent him to bring him here rather than back out at the last minute. Backing out—or running away—was a common move from people dealing with him, especially ones he'd given a choice.

Belle, after a moment's surprise, quickly assumed a poised, confident stance. She looked much more like the woman he remembered from Maurice's court, every inch a queen.

When the smoke cleared, the sheriff was there. He was a tall, black haired man. A little like Lord Gaston, Rumplestiltskin thought, frowning.

The man was formally dressed, right down to his gold chain of office, the same as he would have dressed to meet a great lord or king. Good. He was at least showing proper respect. That boded well. Although (he thought with a wicked grin) fools could be much more entertaining to deal with.

The man's eyes scanned up and down Belle, awed rather than lascivious. He gave her a very proper bow, a guest meeting the lady of the castle. Belle gave him a very elegant curtsy in return. It was also all propriety, a curtsy of a woman receiving a guest who was just slightly above her in rank. But, her regal calm suggested the opposite, that she was far, far above him.

The sheriff caught that subtlety as well. He frowned, a troubled taxonomist unable to place the creature in front of him. Belle turned and led him from the room.

X

Belle felt a moment's relief as the mauve clouds formed, glad the Dark One wasn't making some poor mortal fight his way through the storm outside. The winds in the mountains howled like lost souls and seemed especially loud in this room.

She also knew the Dark One was playing petty games. He must have expected her to be startled when this happened. For all she knew, he was watching her this moment, waiting for her to make a fool of herself.

Well, Belle had dealt with her share of people in Maurice's court (and elsewhere) who smiled sweetly while waiting for a chance to stab her in the back. She fell back on what she'd learned, forcing herself into calmness. Act the great lady, and people often found it hard to remember you weren't.

And, if they got through your defenses and drew blood, _never_ let them know you bled.

It still took all her hard-learned discipline to keep calm when she saw the man who appeared. He was too much like Gaston and Jones, tall and dark haired with a proud look that boded ill for anyone who offended.

_You are a lady here, _Belle reminded herself. _Or close enough._ She was housekeeper, head of staff (all one of her), chatelaine, and whatever else the Dark One decided she should be today. She didn't have to cringe before an interloper, no matter who he reminded her of.

Greetings were exchanged. Belle swept him a graceful curtsy before turning grandly to lead him to the great hall. She had let him know she was a servant, but she tried to imply otherwise in her manner. After all, what might the Dark One have as a servant? For all the man knew, the howling outside was a legion of demons the Dark One kept to clean the scullery who had been given the day off.

Still, she hoped the Dark One _was_ watching. It made her skin crawl to turn her back on this man. But, would the Dark One care? For all she knew, this man with his handsome, nightmare face was part of whatever punishment he had planned for her.

Never mind. She wouldn't run. She wouldn't scream. She would remain calm as befit a great lady.

She swept down the long corridors, listening to the sheriff's footsteps, glad that he seemed content to just stay out of reach behind her.

X

Rumplestiltskin waved at the crystal, making it vanish back into the cabinet, and leaning back in his chair just before Belle swept in with the sheriff. She swept Rumplestiltskin a much deeper and much more sincere curtsy than she had their guest—and made sure the guest saw it. Good. She'd learned a few tricks about playing politics. "My lord," she said. "May I present the Sheriff of Nottingham, Guy of Gisborne." Looking back at Gisborne, she said, "My lord sheriff, may I present the Dark One." Then, she stood aside to let Rumplestiltskin take over.

Rumplestiltskin grinned, just to see how the sheriff would respond to the brown fangs, but the man wasn't like his predecessor, a drunkard, Allen of Voysey. He gave no sign that there was any difference between a mad, fanged imp and the most sober lord holding court in his castle. The sheriff bowed as deeply and properly as he would to a king. "My lord, I am honored to meet you," Gisborne said.

"Indeed, you are," Rumplestiltskin agreed, giving a mad giggle. "Madam, fetch some tea for our guest."

"My lord," Belle murmured, curtsying again before leaving. Rumplestiltskin couldn't help smiling approvingly. He didn't understand her and her moods, but she knew how to play a part when it was required of her.

"What is she?" the sheriff breathed, awed.

"Hmm?"

"Fairy? Siren? Goddess? I'd heard tales of such beings but never seen one. . . ."

Rumplestiltskin looked sharply at the sheriff. Was he drunk after all? Belle was pretty enough when all was said and done, but 'goddess' was going too far.

"She's my maid," Rumplestiltskin said, wanting to end wherever the sheriff was going with this. "And only human." Obviously, being in a magic castle was going to the man's head. He was seeing wonders everywhere. It wasn't even one of Belle's good days. She looked too pale, now he thought about it, and her eyes were shadowed. She must have slept poorly last night. Far from a goddess.

Although, Rumplestiltskin wasn't beyond calling her a siren, the magic beings who took the form of those you loved—but only so they could hurt you when you let down your guard.

Rumplestiltskin shoved the thought aside. It was a pity he didn't tolerate vermin. The sheriff sounded far enough lost he would swoon at a mousehole, so long as it was in the Dark Castle, and call it Ali Baba's cave.

The sheriff was still staring at the door Belle had left through. "Only human? Truly?" A thought seemed to occur to him. "I heard a rumor, a tale that you made a deal with the lord of the lost Marchlands. You delivered his land from a curse and put them under your protection in return for the most beautiful woman in all the kingdom, a courtesan who had been the lord's own mistress, a woman who'd traveled the world and left a road of broken hearts behind her in another time. Was that _her?_"

After a flash of irritation, Rumplestiltskin decided to be amused. He knew how stories tended to change and grow, but this was a bit much.

It was also, he decided, a better tale than the ones that were likely to be told about the Dark One stealing a little boy. Not that there weren't plenty of those in the world already. Half the children in the realm were warned to go to bed on time or the Dark One would get them. He toyed with whether to squash this story or encourage it.

Neither, he decided. "I got her in Lord Maurice's court," he said. "She makes an excellent cup of tea." The sheriff could decide if he wasn't discussing why he'd acquired her or if (inhuman monster that he was) all he cared about was her cooking skills. He changed the subject, getting back to the reason he'd summoned the sheriff in the first place. Belle returned with the tea while they were negotiating. Eyes properly downcast, Belle prepared his and handed the cup to him.

"I'm willing to give a reasonable payment," Rumplestiltskin told Gisborne. It was always interesting when he went in to make a deal without knowing what it was the other person would ask for. Gold was often enough. Other times, they wanted magic. Curse an enemy, save a friend, youth, beauty—the list was endless.

"Magic, I understand, often costs more than it's worth," Gisborne said.

Rumplestiltskin giggled. "All magic comes with a price, dearie, though plenty of people want to pay it."

The sheriff, however, was looking at Belle as she poured his cup. "My lord?" Belle asked. "How do you like your tea?"

The awed look was back in the sheriff's eyes. He didn't see Belle, Rumplestiltskin realized. He saw a tale, a legend. The courtesan whose favors bought the salvation of an entire kingdom, the beauty the Dark One himself would pay for in lives and souls. She could look like a toad on a log and, with that story behind her, all Gisborne would see was his goddess.

"Her," Gisborne said. "That's my price. Let me have her."

X

Belle tried not to let her hands shake as she poured tea, adding honey and lemon. The Dark One and the sheriff were negotiating a price. In words, it was no different than a dozen other deals she'd heard the bits and pieces of. But, she could feel the sheriff's eyes on her.

Her stomach twisted and she felt bile in her throat. She wasn't surprised when the sheriff made his demand.

"Her. That's my price. Let me have her."

_If you're too good for the officers, you can bed down with the crew._

She looked up at the Dark One, wanting to scream, to beg. But, his eyes were on the sheriff.

"Just for a night," the sheriff said. "An _hour_. That's what I want. Only that."

"Only . . . that?" the Dark One repeated the sheriff's words, his voice perfectly, uncharacteristically mild. There was a trap in those words, Belle thought.

Of course there was. And she could feel it closing around her.

"Madam," the Dark One said, still in that odd, calm voice. "Go. We'll finish this without you."

"My lord, I—" _Don't. I'll do what you ask. Whatever—_whatever_ it is. Don't—_

But, she couldn't say the words. They lay in her stomach in frozen lumps.

"_Go!_" he snarled.

Belle turned and ran.

The doors slammed shot on their own behind her. She stood in the passageway, trembling.

This was his revenge. This was her punishment.

Memories. A ship's hold crowded with men, drawing straws for their turns. Jones laughing when he made her scream. His warnings when his brother came aboard.

_Do what he wants, Belle. Or I might decide that brat of yours is making you squeamish. Give a whore a bastard, and she turns into a prude. Don't make me punish you after. Or maybe that brat is the one I should punish. He's the one doing this to you. _

_He won't do that, _Belle told herself. She didn't understand the Dark One and his talk of fate, but he cared for Bae. She thought—she believed—he cared for her son.

She'd been wrong about him before. Yesterday had proved that.

She couldn't breathe. She had to get out, get air.

Belle saw the door to the battlements. Without stopping to debate, she ran to it and threw it open, rushing outside.

The cold air slammed into her, clearing her mind. Despite the snow and wind, her shaking eased.

Back in the great hall, the Dark One was negotiating his price for her.

_Jones is dead, _she thought. _He's dead. _

_I thought I was free._

She moved away from the door. The shivering was coming back. It was too cold out here. She had to go in before she froze.

But. . . .

But, going back in meant facing the Dark One and whatever deal he'd made. It meant—it meant—

She remembered him bandaging her hands, healing them. She'd trusted him, then. Or something that felt like trust.

Would he have her work her trade in Bae's room? Or put her someplace else in the castle? Or give her a charm, like the one he'd given the sheriff, send her to the man's home, then expect her to return when she was done? Would he come and fetch her if she didn't? Or would that be another victory, getting rid of her at last?

The wind howled around her. Like the dead. Maybe Jones and his crew were out there, mocking her. For all she knew, maybe the Dark One summoned their wraiths to see this little farce play out to its end.

The cold bit into her. Belle tried to keep moving, pacing the battlements. It had been snowing for hours, but the wind was blowing it free of the stones. It was only at the edge of the parapets where the wind couldn't reach it that it lay in piles.

She should have brought her shawl. No, she should go back in. Belle remembered stories the sailors had told of men falling into the water in the northern seas, how quickly they could freeze and die. How long had she been out here?

The icy sting was beginning to fade. She couldn't go back, not yet. Just a little longer, she told herself. To catch her breath, to feel numb inside.

She walked further. She wasn't sure for how long—or how far. There were dangerous places out here, stairs and odd turns. Harmless enough normally, but it was hard to see. The snow around her was so thick, she wondered if the old saying was true. Maybe she wouldn't be able to see her hand in front of her eyes. She paced some more. She should test it, Belle thought. But, lifting her hand seemed too much effort.

Where was she? How far had she come? This was foolishness. She needed to go back in before—before—

Her thoughts felt heavy as lead. Doors. There were doors all along the walkways, weren't there? She needed to find one. She needed to go inside and face what had to be faced.

She could do this. She'd done it before. The cold was numbing her. That was what she needed. To be numb and cold, inside and out.

Belle turned towards the side of the castle. Or what she thought was the side. She ran into stone, but it was the parapets.

Turn around. Go back.

Except, the wind pushed and prodded at her (the dead voices howling). The snow blinded her. She thought she was heading back across, towards the castle. Why wasn't she finding it?

The answer felt as if it should be obvious, but her leaden mind had trouble finding the answer. Going the wrong way. She must be going the wrong way.

Belle turned again and took a few steps. Then, her foot met nothing but air.

The stairs. She'd found the stairs.

She stumbled, tried to find her footing as she fell into air, tumbling down the stairs along the battlements, landing in a small heap at the bottom.

It was a little sheltered from the wind, here. The snow had been given the chance to accumulate, breaking her fall.

It was so soft. She knew it should be cold, but she only felt the softness. Weariness weighed down on her like stones.

_Get up, _she thought. _Get out of here. You can't stay here. It's dangerous._

She tried to remember why it was dangerous. She tried to remember why it was wrong to lay here and rest.

_Get up, _she told herself again.

_I will, _she answered back. _In a moment. . . ._

_A moment._

With that promise, Belle's eyes slid closed.


	10. The Cold Truth

Belle thought she knew what exhaustion was, what it was to be pushed and driven till she collapsed, feeling like nothing more than a damp rag. Now, being dragged somewhere back to a point between sleep and waking, she thought she knew what it meant to collapse, to be completely drained, and still find herself forced to come back and face the world. She was so tired, it hurt.

Everything hurt.

She was lying on her side. Dimly, she remembered falling. She remembered panic and fear and falling.

Being awake—being alive—meant facing all that again.

She whimpered, her hand clutching her locket. _Rumplestiltskin, help me. I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore. Help me._

Hands, warm and soft, touched the back of her neck and shoulders.

"Belle?" a familiar voice said softly, as if afraid of waking her up. "Sweetheart, it's all right."

Dreams. She had dreams like this, that her husband was still with her, that she was safe at home with him and Bae, and everything else was just a bad dream. She let go of her locket, reaching out for his hand.

Part of her expected to find this was a nightmare, to wake and realize she was holding the Dark One's clawed hand or the sheriff's—or worse, that the Dark One and his castle, and even Gaston and Lord Maurice's court were nothing but a dream and it was Jones lying beside her, Jones she was reaching out for.

But, the hand that closed so comfortingly around hers was familiar to her touch. It was small but long fingered, with the calluses of a spinner and weaver yet still soft from handling the lanolin in the wool. Even his nails, she thought, running a finger over the tips of his fingers, cut short and kept free of rough edges that would catch on his thread instead of the Dark One's talons. It was him.

"Rumplestiltskin. . . ?"

"Here, sweetheart."

"It hurts." She was crying. She hadn't meant to cry, not when he was here for this small moment (a part of her knew he would be gone—he always was—when she woke, but it was so hard to remember). "It won't stop hurting. I've tried. But, I can't—I _can't_—" She didn't know what it was she couldn't do. Couldn't keep fighting. Couldn't stand and pretend it didn't hurt. Couldn't smile and be dead inside when one man handed her off to another with orders to do as she was bid.

"Shh, it's all right. You don't need to. I'm here now." His hands began to gently knead the painful knots in her neck and shoulders, the way he used to when she was worried or afraid.

_It's not real._

"You're not here," she said. "Not really."

"Real enough, sweetheart. Now, rest. You need to rest. I promise I'll watch over you."

"I love you," she whispered, feeling herself slipping further back into sleep. "I miss you."

She felt something brush against her hair. Had he kissed her? "I miss you, too, sweetheart." His voice was rough. Something in it reminded her of another voice. . . . It slipped away.

_Later, _she thought. _I'll think about it later._

It was a dream. It was always a dream. But, she was too tired to fight the comfort it gave. Real or not, she let herself believe she was warm and safe and in the strong embrace of a man who wanted nothing except to keep her safe—even though she knew these things never happened outside of dreams.

X

Rumplestiltskin was spinning, trying to calm the turbulence inside him.

When Belle had fled, he'd turned his attention to the sheriff. "I lied," he told him. "She is a goddess. And she should be treated like one." He tittered madly as he waved his hand and showed the sheriff his tongue, lying in his hand, taloned fingers closing over it. "What do you think is a proper punishment for blasphemy?"

They had come to a mutually satisfying deal after that. The sheriff got to leave in one piece (with an understanding of what pieces he would lose if he ever insulted Belle again), and Rumplestiltskin got an enjoyable afternoon. Or an afternoon he should have enjoyed.

He kept seeing Belle's face before he told her to leave.

She'd been white as a ghost, nearly as white as she'd been last night when Rumplestiltskin almost kissed her.

Rumplestiltskin remembered Jones saying how Belle had sold herself in every port they came to—and how she'd enjoyed it. Either the captain had been wrong or two-and-a-half years as Gaston's mistress had changed her. Or there was another answer he wasn't seeing.

Whatever her feelings towards lovers, he knew she'd been upset at Bae's little prayer for revenge at All Souls. Rumplestiltskin could only imagine how she'd have reacted if she saw him tearing out body parts, no matter how painlessly. And even if he put them back where he'd found them. There was nothing to ruin a little bit of well-earned revenge like the person you were avenging having weeping fits or (worse) a case of the vapors over your victim.

He spun the wheel, trying not to see the horror in Belle's eyes at the inn. He was nothing like Gisborne. Only a fool would think otherwise—and Belle was no fool, whatever else she might be. He was imagining things.

He was repeating this to himself again, when Bae burst into the hall, his eyes wide with fear.

"Mama," he said. "I can't find Mama."

Rumplestiltskin's first impulse was to say something sarcastic—he didn't want to hear about Belle right now—but he bit it back. Frightened as he was, Bae wouldn't appreciate it. Besides, Rumplestiltskin had seen Belle with Bae. In her way, he could be as protective (some would say as overprotective [Rumplestiltskin wouldn't]) as he was. He looked at the pile of gold he'd spun. How long since he finished with Gisborne? About as long as it took Belle to finish cleaning the cups and dishes from tea. She should be done by now.

Except, she hadn't come back for the tea tray.

That wasn't like her. But, Rumplestiltskin remembered the fear in her eyes as he'd told her to go and the even greater fear when Gisborne named her as his price. She had reason enough to stay out of the great hall.

"The castle will show you the way, if you ask it," he said.

"I did. The lights led outside. I can't open the door."

"What?" Rumplestiltskin got up. "Show me."

There was a door to the battlements in the passageway just outside the great hall. Rumplestiltskin concentrated, wondering if Bae had somehow misphrased his request. But, the lights stayed unchanged, glowing by the door. "Where's Belle?" he demanded out loud, the words more like a crocodile's rumble than a human voice. Bae flinched at the sound, but the lights still didn't alter.

"Stay here," Rumplestiltskin ordered Bae before running outside.

The door slammed shut behind him before Bae could follow, the castle's defenses in action. The biting wind would be too much for a small child, even for a few minutes, and he'd ordered the castle to protect Bae.

He'd given no such orders for Belle.

There were torches along the side of the castle. Normal ones wouldn't stay lit in this storm and normal eyes wouldn't be able to see them if they did. Fortunately, "normal" had very little to do with the Dark Castle and its master. He followed the line of flames to the stairs leading down the battlements and leapt down them. The lights stopped at the foot of the stairway. Confused, he looked around, searching till he saw the small snowdrift that wasn't a snowdrift.

Rumplestiltskin reached down, brushing the light layer of snow away, revealing an ice pale face beneath.

Belle. It was Belle.

All Rumplestiltskin could think for a moment was to be glad where she fell. There was snow enough here to break her fall but still enough wind to keep her from being buried too deeply. She'd have been able to breathe.

If she was still alive.

Rumplestiltskin scooped Belle up, looking at her with magic as well as normal senses (or his abnormal versions of them). She was cold and her breaths were shallow and barely detectable, even to him. Her heartbeat was slow and growing slower. But, the spark of life was there inside her where he could feel it. Clutching Belle to his chest, he rushed up the stairs back to the door, where it swung out of his way (if a door could be frightened, this one was cowering in terror), letting him in.

"Mama?" Bae cried when he saw what Rumplestiltskin carried. "What happened to Mama?"

_That's what I'd very much like to know. _"She fell," Rumplestiltskin said. "Quickly, we need to get her to the great hall." He was already striding past Bae, doors flying open before him. Rumplestiltskin raced to the fireplace, making the flames burst into a small inferno to warm the room. "Get me the fleece," he told Bae as the boy caught up with him. "Hurry!"

Bae ran to the table where the golden fleece was displayed while Rumplestiltskin dealt with Belle's cloths. He wasn't sure how long she had lain in the snow, but it was long enough for the snow to first melt against her dress and then turn to ice as her body lost the little heat it had. It was worse than useless now, chilling her as it thawed. He didn't bother with buttons, just reaching into the back of the collar and shredding it apart with his claws. He spat a curse at her boots, bursting them at the seams. A quick glance at her locket simply undid the catch and let it fall away. Metal was the opposite problem from ice. It would absorb heat, even to the point of burning her skin, while the rest of her still froze. He ignored it where it fell, tearing away the rest of her frozen dress and shift.

And stopped.

Rumplestiltskin stared.

Belle's back was covered with scars.

There were layers of them. He reached out his hand and traced one of the oldest, the thin line of a whipping scar. Laying over it were the thicker, more ragged marks of flogging, a forest of them, branching out like a thick web of trees.

He knew scars. It was the one rational thought he could hold onto at that moment. People called on him in desperation and anger—and for revenge. He'd seen more than his share of injuries.

Whippings. Those were favored on land where thin lengths of wood, riders' crops, and larger strips of leather were easily found. Flogging was a seaman's punishment.

Rumplestiltskin ran his fingers across more of the lines, inventorying the marks as he tried to make sense of them. The cat-o-nine-tails left a distinctive pattern, if you knew what to look for. The knotted cords struck together, branching from a common grip. When the officers were being especially vindictive, they had the victim first struck by someone right-handed. Then, the flogger either switched hands or the captain called on a left-handed crewman—a naturally left-handed man hit harder and straighter. That way, the cuts criss-crossed over each other, making it that much harder to move without pain and harder for the wounds not to be reopened.

Rumplestiltskin touched a round, lumpish scar where one of the knots in the cat had struck. That was the cruelest punishment, worse than the two-handed flogging, putting sharp bits of metal or jagged edged debris tied into the cords, the better to rip the flesh.

No. This didn't make sense. What he was seeing didn't make sense. He'd seen the passion in Jones' eyes when he spoke of Belle. His wildcat, he'd called her.

"_Quite a pair of claws on her,"_ Jones had said. _"Sometimes, it was a fight to get her to pull them in."_

Fight. Claws. Scars.

There was layer after layer of marks from beatings. It was hard to count the number of times this had been done to her.

"My lord?"

Rumplestiltskin looked up. Bae was standing by him. He looked frightened and confused. He was clutching the fleece. "My lord? What—what should I do with this?"

It took Rumplestiltskin a moment to understand what he was asking. The fleece. Belle needed the fleece. "Spread it on the floor," he told the boy. "In front of the fire."

Bae did as he was told. Rumplestiltskin put Belle down on the golden wool. The hide had been large when Bae put it down—it came from a good sized ram, after all, one large enough to carry two children on its back—but now it grew to almost the size of a cowhide. Rumplestiltskin folded it around Belle. Then, he gathered her back up in his arms. Bae watched, silent and terrified.

Explanations, Rumplestiltskin thought, his slow brain beginning to move. He knew how to calm a frightened child. Whether rescuing them from Ogres or taking them as payment, he'd done it often enough. Give him answers. Children's fears grew on feeling powerless and not understanding why terrible things were happening. Reduce it to something simple and comprehensible, something they had power over.

Above all, speak in a reassuring voice. Show no fear, no matter what you felt yourself.

"Your mother fell," he told him, not sure if that was the truth. "It must have stunned her. In a storm like this, that's dangerous. It doesn't take long for the cold to get the better of you." Bae nodded mutely, not asking the question that was burning in Rumplestiltskin's brain: _Why_ had Belle gone outside in a raging blizzard without even a shawl to protect her? Had she stumbled blindly? Or had she given up, laying herself down in the snow?

"Her clothes were soaked with ice. Have you ever been caught in the rain on a cold day?" Bae nodded, still wordless. "It's hard to get warm before your clothes dry, isn't it? And your mama can't wait for that. That's why I had to get rid of her clothes. This fleece is magic. It came from a magic ram who had sunlight woven into him—he could even fly. The fleece can heal and protect, but it's especially good against cold. Here, see? Feel some of the wool."

Bae reached out nervously and brushed his fingers against a little tuft right by the edge of the hide. His eyes widened. "It's warm!"

Good. He was speaking again. Even if the words had been startled out of him. "Yes, and it's putting all that warmth into your mama. I'm using magic to watch what's happening inside her, to see how her heart's beating and make sure nothing else is happening that shouldn't." He moved closer to the fire, still holding Belle. The child, he saw, was still afraid. It was marked on every inch of his face. "She's going to be all right, Bae," he assured him.

As far as her body went, it was true. Rumplestiltskin had to watch her, make sure icy blood didn't move too quickly from frozen limbs and damage her heart or any other organ in her body, make sure hands and feet healed instead of being lost to frostbite. But, her _body_ was easy to heal.

He needed to give Bae something to do. Rumplestiltskin summoned a bottle from his workroom into his hand. The liquid inside glowed, only a little less bright than molten gold. "Do you know what this is? This is a healing potion pressed from sun-flowers. The real kind. Untwist the stopper, will you? This will help your mama."

He held the bottle out to Bae, keeping his grip on it as the little boy twisted the cap, pulling it off. Rumplestiltskin murmured his approval. Then, he lifted Belle up and pressed the bottle to her lips—they had a blue tinge, and her face was nearly bloodless. He counted the drops. Seven. That was as much as he dared. When he was done, Belle was still white, but her lips had turned a very faint shade of pink and a hint of color worked into her cheeks.

Rumplestiltskin lowered her onto the floor. Concentrating, he summoned pillows from one of the many rooms above. Careful not to loosen the fleece from around Belle, he raised her feet and put the pillows under her legs.

"We want the blood to flow to her head and heart. That's what's best for her now," Rumplestiltskin said. But, he still needed to watch her closely. There were too many things that could go wrong—things he could fix, easily, but only if he saw them happening. Magic had a price, and the price became tangled and confused when he tried to see it in Belle. Safest to keep this simple, to watch and use only small magics as necessary.

He looked at Bae. The boy was almost as pale as Belle. "You did the right thing," he reassured his son. "You knew something was wrong and you came and got me in time. Everything will be all right, thanks to you."

It wasn't all right. Belle had run out onto the battlements in a storm. She had fallen and nearly died. By accident. It _had _to be by accident.

Bae nodded jerkily. He looked as bewildered and frightened as he had the night Maurice's guards dragged him from his bed into the ball.

Rumplestiltskin needed something to distract him. He saw the locket lying on the ground and picked it up. "This is your mama's, isn't it?" Rumplestiltskin thought of the many times he'd seen Belle's hand go to it, always when she was frightened or worried (he thought of how many times something he'd said or done made her reach for it). It was her talisman, he thought, though he didn't know why. "Did Lord Gaston give this to her?"

Bae shrugged. What did a six year old boy know or care about his mother's jewelry? Not that Rumplestiltskin needed him to know. It had Gaston's family crest on it. So, had Gaston thought of Belle as family? Or was this more along the lines of a dog's collar, something to tell people who the owner was?

Or had it been to let people know Belle was under his protection? That he would defend her the way Rumplestiltskin never had?

Rumplestiltskin flipped it open. He was expecting a portrait—Gaston trying very hard to look intelligent and dashing—or perhaps a luck charm. Instead, there was a childish sketch. "Did you do this?" he asked.

Bae nodded eagerly. "Mama had a picture of Lord Gaston but she got rid of it after we came her. I drew that for her. It's Papa."

_It's Papa._

"You—you did a very good job." Very faintly, along the edge, Rumplestiltskin could make out a worn spot. The new portrait wasn't the only time the center part of the locket was taken out. Careful not to damage Bae's drawing, Rumplestiltskin removed it.

For a second, his fingers tingled, as if he'd brushed against lightning.

It was only a lock of hair, lank and dull brown. But, it was his.

A lock of hair of the Dark One. There were wizards and witches who would pay blood—their own as well as others—for this.

But, that wasn't why Belle had it. It was the custom in the Frontlands, a common remembrance. Probably every man in the village had cut a lock to give to woman close to him before he left for war. Just as he'd given one to Belle, one she kept by her all these years even if she had to hide it in the locket another man had given her. . . .

No, no, this was wrong. It had to be wrong.

She hated him. She couldn't bear to look at him. Belle had run out into the storm, risking her life, rather than confront him about the deal she thought—she must have thought—he was making with Gisborne.

He should have let her stay, should have let her watch as he taught the sheriff a much needed lesson. But, Belle had been upset just at Bae's prayer for revenge last night. And Rumplestiltskin had been angry with her today. He had driven her out rather than let her see him defending her honor.

_Her honor_, the snide, familiar voice echoed in his head. But, it was only a habit. There was no bite in it, not now.

Too many horrible things were coming together in his mind, things he should have seen before, things he _would _have seen if he had just let himself.

The sheriff had asked for her as his price; and Rumplestiltskin hadn't turned him down, not where she could hear him.

She had been flogged, a seaman's punishment. And she hadn't even been able to look at him when he wore the form of the seaman he'd thought was her lover.

"Bae," he said, keeping his voice steady. Sounding calm, that was important. Bae was upset enough as it was. "Your mama has scars on her back. Do you know how she got those?"

Bae nodded. "The captain. He was mean." Mean. Bae had prayed to his father for the captain's ship to sink. Rumplestiltskin had been amused, knowing the petition was already answered, thinking it just a child's whim.

"You . . . saw him do this." Despite his best efforts, there was tremor in Rumplestiltskin's voice.

Bae shook his head. "I don't think so. I don't _remember_ seeing it. Mr. Smee made me stay in the cabin when bad things happened."

Smee. He'd been the ship's purser, the one Ursula had helped him find after the man had left Jones' service and was living on land. Rumplestiltskin had despised him for how quickly he gave up the information on his old captain, but he'd paid him for it all the same and left the man alive and well. If he'd known Smee had spared Bae the sight of his mother being flogged, he'd have given the frightened sailor a kingdom if he'd asked for it.

"If he did this, why did your mama stay with the captain?" A stupid question. Why did any woman stay with a man who beat her? As the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin had seen the ways fear, hopelessness, and something that called those feelings love could twist decisions. For that matter, why had Rumplestiltskin himself stayed in a village where people spat at the sight of him until it was almost too late to try and save Morraine?

"Mama had to stay," Bae said. "The captain bought her."

"He—what?"

"He bought her. Mama was a—a—" Bae's face screwed up with concentration as he tried to get the hard word right. "An in-_den _-tured servant," Bae said it very carefully, obviously proud of himself for getting it all out.

"Indentured. . . ." Bae might as well have turned into an Ogre and hit him on the head with his club for all the sense his words made.

Except they did. The scars, the layers of them, things Jones himself had said. Rumplestiltskin tried to narrow his thoughts to those, putting away three centuries of things he thought he knew but didn't. Scars, wounds, those were real, solid. They didn't change shape no matter how the world itself was shifting beneath his feet.

The oldest scars were from a whipping—_a_ whipping, only one. Whipping was a landsman's punishment, an old favorite in the Frontlands. Rumplestiltskin has scars of his own, a parting gift before the army had sent him on his way.

Someone being punished for wrongdoing could be whipped along with facing fines. If the fines couldn't be paid, the wrongdoer could be sold off instead. If a crippled servant weren't useless, Rumplestiltskin's judges might have done that to him as well. He'd been glad the small holding he and Belle had was too far away for the officers deciding his fate to care about or go through the trouble of seizing.

Their holding. Belle could have sold off the holding to pay the fines and save herself. Or . . . no. It would be easy enough to tie up a widow's property, especially if she had a young son. The child would be the heir under the law, not her. A village leader could stop a guardian widow from disposing of her son's property if it wasn't in the child's interest. Or if he claimed it wasn't.

Even if it meant the child went with his mother into slavery.

"How did your mother—_why_ was your mother indentured?"

"Hordor was angry," Bae said, as if Rumplestiltskin should understand everything from that, who Hordor was, why he would be angry, why he would take that anger out on Belle.

And Rumplestiltskin did, he understood every word of it.

Except he didn't.

Bae must have seen Rumplestiltskin's confusion. "It was after Papa and all the other men died," he added helpfully.

Died.

After Papa died.

"Your father . . . died?" Died. What other word could Bae mean? _How _could he think. . . ? "How? How did he die?"

"Ogres," Bae said. He looked surprised Rumplestiltskin wouldn't know this. "In the war. They killed everyone. Mama said it took a year for the news to get to the village. Hordor told everyone."

A year. A widow a year, Rumplestiltskin thought. And Belle had done something to make Hordor angry. A woman who was a widow a year could remarry. Rumplestiltskin remembered the look Hordor had given Morraine, the way he'd fingered her honey-dark hair as he'd said she'd ride with him. Rumplestiltskin could imagine what he'd asked of Belle, and what she'd done to bring out his fury.

But—No, Hordor had known Rumplestiltskin was alive. He had been waiting to tell Rumplestiltskin how Belle had left, how she had abandoned him. . . .

For the first time, Rumplestiltskin saw the oddness of that. The village headman rushing out of his hall, running down the road to tell a crippled nobody—less than nobody, a disgraced coward—his wife had left him.

Rumplestiltskin remembered the neighbors who never met his eyes when Hordor or one of his men mentioned Belle, even the ones who thought nothing of spitting on him in the street or giving him a beating when they were bored turned away in shame when Belle's name was spoken.

He looked back on things he'd never questioned, looking at pieces through his centuries of experience as trickster and dealmaker, questioning what he had always believed.

The pieces didn't fit. The villagers felt shame when they heard Belle's name, but it wasn't the shame of a small village where scandals could be remembered and held against a family for generations. They were never ashamed of _her._

They were ashamed of themselves.

When they called him coward, when they spat on him and struck him, they were trying to bury the memory of their own cowardice, to convince themselves his was even worse—that _he _was the one who deserved to be despised, not them.

Because they'd stood by while Hordor beat an innocent woman and sold her to a passing pirate. Because they'd kept silent for fear of Hordor rather than tell Rumplestiltskin the truth.

But, Jones. The stories he'd told Rumplestiltskin. He'd said Belle had enjoyed—that she'd chosen—that she'd _begged_ for everything he'd done to her.

The scars on her back. A seaman's punishment.

Slowly, Rumplestiltskin lifted a hand and placed it on the fleece above Belle's stomach. It was a simple spell. So easy, a child could do it (he must never, _never_ teach Bae this spell, not if it showed him what he expected).

All magic comes with a price. If he was right, if this gave him the answer he expected. . . . He couldn't imagine any price worse than knowing the truth.

"What are you doing?" Bae asked.

"Looking for other injuries," Rumplestiltskin told him truthfully. "Ones I may have missed."

Lines of light traced out over the fleece across Belle's body. Different colors, different patterns meant different wounds. Some he known about already. Belle had told him about breaking her arm at age seven, and there was the scar on her knee from a tumble out of an apple tree a year later. Some he had expected. There were marks that showed on a woman who'd born a child (Bae's birth, he saw, had been harder than he would have wished for her but not nearly as bad as he had feared in the days when he'd dreamt of coming home and finding Belle dead in childbirth).

There were other scars, healed now—mostly healed—in about the same parts of her body, below her waist, before and behind. Rumplestiltskin ignored the roiling in his stomach as he read the broad outlines of the history written there.

Jones had believed what he'd said, that Belle had enjoyed this. Rumplestiltskin had seen the look in his eyes as he'd gloated. He'd done these abominations to her and said she _enjoyed it._ He'd let other men do the same to her—in every port, so he'd said—so he'd _boasted. _

Rumplestiltskin thought back on the long, painful death Ursula had given Jones. It hadn't been long enough.

_I took his shape, _Rumplestiltskin realized. _Standing in an inn. By a bed. I took his shape and tried to take her in my arms. _He'd seen her eyes. The fear. The revulsion.

If she had struck him with a knife, it would have been less than he deserved.

And, the next day, he had stood by while another man bargained to force her into his bed. He'd sent her away rather than let her interrupt their negotiations.

She had run out into the snow. The only question was if she'd done it in a panic, to get away from him, or if she'd been hoping to die out there?

"Baelfire," Rumplestiltskin said. "Tell me. Did your mother ever tell you anything about Jones? Did she—" _Did she say he tortured her, _raped_ her for the fun of it. Did she say he enjoyed selling her to men as depraved as he was?_ "—did she tell you what she thought of him?"

"He was mean," Bae said. "He made Mama cry a lot."

Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes. Jones had suffered, he reminded himself. He'd been surprised the man lived as long as he did.

Rumplestiltskin remembered what he himself had gone through since smashing his leg with the mallet, the months when he hadn't known if he would live or die, the darkness when he'd stood in his empty house and found out what living really cost.

_You did not pay nearly enough._

He didn't know if he was talking to Jones or to himself.Top of Form


End file.
